


Coming Home

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: Home is where the heart is [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Baby Judith, Blow Jobs, Character Death, Domestic Fluff, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Motorcycles, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Lori Grimes/Rick Grimes, Present Tense, References to Depression, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Burn, Violence, everyone has it out for Rick's beard, mentions of medical procedures, none of the main characters die no worries, this story contains no female character bashing whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-11-20 19:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 143,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18131219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: It all starts when ex-cop Rick Grimes has a bit of a shitty day. A homeless man saves his daughter's life and Rick decides to save his in return. Little does he know that something sinister is lurking just around the corner, poised to threaten his family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom, and obviously I'm some eight years late to the party. I'm nervous like you can't even imagine.
> 
> This story will be updated once a week, on Saturdays. I've got a lot written ahead.  
> Edited: Twice a week! Saturdays and Tuesdays/Wednesdays.

There are days when literally everything, everything goes to shit. For Rick Grimes, the first Tuesday of April is exactly such a day. It starts innocently enough, like so many before: Judith starts crying in her bedroom. For some reason, it startles Rick so much, he knocks over the mug and can only watch helplessly as the hot coffee spills all over the floor. Then, cursing under his breath, he accidentally steps on the tiniest piece of the mug which digs deep into the soft flesh on the sole of his foot. Judith is still crying, so Rick hurries to her, sort of hopping on one foot because damn, it hurts. He makes it up the stairs without hurting himself, but he stubs his toe on the dresser right in front of Judith's room. That's the second foot, right there. Finally, he enters the room and picks up his crying daughter, and as he rocks her gently, trying to hush her, she generously throws up on him.

Oh, God, he'd never known an infant can have so much of it inside.

At least she stops crying, so Rick carries her to the bathroom where he sets her on her bathtub seat and takes off his t-shirt which he throws straight at the washing machine and misses. It falls on the stack of clean shirts on top of the drier which he's forgotten to put away, and the baby vomit drizzles on most of the clothes because of course it does. Sighing, Rick leans against the tub and lifts his leg to examine the place the tiny mug fragment pierced the skin. He can't remove it with his fingers, his nails aren't long enough, so he reaches without looking for the pincers on the mirror shelf and pricks his hand on the upturned nail clippers someone - he, obviously - left there. Groaning, he finds the pincers and after a moment of digging in the tiny wound without much luck, he finally manages to remove the piece only to notice there's now blood dripping on the floor of the bathroom.

“Oh, this is getting better and better,” he announces to Judith who starts giggling. “At least you're having fun,” he says, chuckling.

He grabs some baby wipes which he uses both to clean Judith's little mouth and his own not-so-little-anymore wound which he then covers with a band-aid. Since they're already in the bathroom, he decides to give Judith a bath. This at least goes pretty smoothly, save for Rick becoming almost just as wet and soapy as his daughter in the process. Better this than baby vomit.

He finishes with her cleaning rituals and wraps her in a diaper which has little flowers printed all over. She doesn't care about the cute print, but the brand is high quality and it was on sale last time Rick went shopping so he bought it to see if it works any better. He can't see much difference, but he thinks Judith cries a tiny bit less, so maybe he's going to buy this brand again.

Once his daughter is all done, Rick dries himself off with a towel and picks her up. He slowly carries her to his bedroom, both feet still a little tender, and sets her on the bed to wait a second while he pulls on some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt from the wardrobe. He watches his little girl gurgle happily as she wiggles her tiny arms and legs towards a spot of light on the blanket while he dresses. For a moment, he regrets he hasn't got a video camera to record this cuteness for prosperity. It would certainly come in handy one day when she's Carl's age and starts acting all rebellious on her daddy just like her brother tends to nowadays.

It's about half past eleven, so he decides he can make her some lunch a bit early. He picks her up and gets her dressed as well, in something much more stylish than his own casual attire. Actually, all her clothes are more stylish than his, all of them pretty little dresses in pastel colors and cutesy patterns. Rick can't help himself when he's baby-shopping. His daughter is a princess and he will dress her as such for as long as she tolerates his fashion choices.

“Let's go get us some carrots, why don't we,” he suggests out loud and smiles back at Judith when she babbles happily in her infant language. He wraps her carefully in her sunflower-print baby sling and attaches it securely to hold her against his chest, which she really loves because it gives her the perfect opportunity to grab at his beard. Rick considers shaving it off, but probably not today; this day is too accident-heavy for him already.

He walks out the door and heads to his backyard garden. Judith chirps something cheerful and Rick sets her down on the grass, allowing her to crawl around a little bit while he tends to the vegetables. She's safe in the garden, after all. Worst thing that can happen here is she might eat an earthworm. She's already done that once. Rick felt more sick at the fact than she did. Children are pretty hardcore in some aspects.

He waters the tomatoes and picks a few weeds in the carrot patch, all the while listening to the birds twittering in the trees above and his daughter giggling contentedly on the ground. It's such a blissful thing, to be able to work on his little piece of land in the safety of his yard. He loves gardening. It's something he never considered doing before Alexandria, something he never thought would be satisfying. It's almost like having a farm, but not quite; he's still in a big city, he's not depending on the crops to keep his family fed or anything, it's just... a hobby. A way to relax.

Rick is so ensnared by the feeling of warm damp earth on his fingers as he's lost in thought, he almost doesn't hear the soft sound of discontent Judith makes.

He turns to her just in time to see a man picking her up and running towards the gate. Rick jumps to his feet and immediately dashes after the kidnapper, right on his heels as the man dashes madly towards the street. He shouts after the kidnapper, tries to grab him by the jacket, but he stumbles on the sidewalk and collapses. He scrambles to pick himself up and, all of a sudden, he sees it:

It's just a second, there's a car coming, but the kidnapper didn't notice and the noise of the tires screeching on asphalt right before the crash is something that will be forever etched into Rick's memory.

For one horrible moment, the only thing he can register is the stupid, stupid song on the radio of that car. Nothing else, just the silly lyrics and the simple beat, some pop song he's never heard before. Then, he takes a shuddering breath and tries to take a step, and he thinks his knees will give out when he sees the battered form of the kidnapper on the asphalt in front of the car. And oh God, there's blood, there's so much blood. He can't look. He can't look, but he has to-

Someone puts a hand on his arm, shakes him and Rick growls, tries to free himself because he _has to see_. But then he hears – crying. And it's unmistakable, it's the cry he would always recognize, it's his baby, his little Jude, and the sound isn't coming from the mess of broken limbs and blood in front of the car, it's much closer, and he looks up at whoever is shaking his shoulder.

“Here man, take 'er,” someone mutters, pushing his little girl in Rick's arms and the relief which courses through him right then is enough to make him crumble to the ground as if all strength has left him. He holds his baby to him for dear life, making soft, hushing sounds when she hiccups from all the crying, and only when she calms down a little does Rick look up at her savior.

He's seen the man before a few times, in the park nearby where he usually takes Judith for a walk when the weather's nice. The man is probably homeless; at least that's what his unkempt appearance and torn clothing seem to suggest. When Rick saw him before, the man was either sitting on a bench, smoking, or, if there were almost no people around, he would pick through the trash for cans and bottles he could sell. Rick never saw him drinking and even now, the man doesn't stink of booze at all. And even if he did, Rick doesn't think he would mind. Not after what this man did. He could almost kiss him.

“You saved her,” he whispers. “You saved my daughter. Thank you. My God, thank you so much.”

“'s nuthin',” the homeless man replies, looking away as though embarrassed in the face of Rick's gratitude. “Saw 'im takin' 'er. Knew ye from the park. Had ta help,” he explains softly. His voice is low, his southern drawl so thick Rick can't wonder what somebody like that is doing so far up north around a luxury housing estate in Alexandria.

There's a small crowd gathering around them. Someone's called the ambulance or the police because Rick can hear the sirens in the distance. The noise and the attention is making Judith uncomfortable again, so Rick turns to scan the crowd. There's Tara, his neighbor next door, and Rick nods to her.

“I'll take Judith home,” he says. “Shane's guys need me, tell them where to find me.”

He doesn't wait for Tara's reply before he addresses the homeless man. “Thanks again. I don't know how I can repay you.”

Then, he has an idea. “Would you like to come in?” He asks, gesturing towards his house.

The surprise on the homeless man's face is almost comical. Rick is actually surprised at himself, too. It's not everyday he invites strangers to his home and he most definitely never considered inviting someone like this. But this man saved his daughter, saved her life and Rick doesn't even care if the man's clothes are torn and dirty and he smells like he hasn't had a bath in weeks. He just wants to show the man how grateful he is, how much it means to him that Judith is safely back with him after what happened. How important his daughter is to him, how – how he's not a bad father even though he let her out of his sight for a second-

“Nah,” the homeless man finally says, shaking his head. He isn't looking at Rick at all, he's just staring at his feet. He turns as if to leave. “Gotta go.”

Rick reacts before thinking: he grabs the man by the elbow a little too forcefully, making him wince. Judith mumbles softly and the man looks at her, not at Rick when Rick says,

“Please? I was just about to make lunch. You saved my daughter's life, please let me pay you back.”

The homeless man frowns, all too aware that they have an audience. Hesitantly, he nods and follows Rick to the house, shuffling his feet as though he doesn't really want to go.

It's a bit strange to have this man inside the pristine suburban house. He sticks out like a sore thumb in the bright hallway, his hunched form dressed in black and grayish rags, his dark matted hair tangled and greasy, and his face covered in dirt. He doesn't seem very comfortable in there either; he keeps shooting worried glances around the house like he's looking for a way out. Like a feral cat suddenly captured and locked in a cage.

Rick isn't sure how to proceed, now that he has the man in the house. Lori would know what to do, he thinks bitterly, but Lori is not here and anyway, Lori wouldn't have had a homeless man standing in her perfect little house even if said man literally saved their daughter's life. Lori was all about appearances and catering to society's strict standards. Rick's not. Rick's all about helping people.

He thinks, _I want to help him_.

“I have chicken goulash, it's yesterday's leftovers but I can heat it up real quick if you'd like,” he offers, showing the man to the kitchen.

“I, um. Dun' wanna trouble ya,” the man says.

Rick grins, shakes his head. “It's no trouble. I told you, I was just about to prepare lunch, so. Huh. Would you like to take a shower before food's ready? I think I should have some clothes that would fit you, too.”

The man looks at Rick for the first time, his eyes narrowed. His glare is piercing. He really looks like a feral cat, all distrustful and hissy. Rick's done enough TNR both back in Atlanta and with the rescue here in Alexandria to be able to draw the comparison.

“Why ya doin' this?” The man asks suspiciously. Then, “don't need yer charity.”

“It's not charity, it's called being grateful,” Rick clarifies patiently. “You were a hero today, you saved my daughter even though you had no reason to help. I want to do something for you. I promise you, I'm not much into charity at all.”

He really isn't. Not directed at people, anyway.

The man seems to consider it for a moment. Finally, he nods. “I'd... uh. Shower sounds. Nice,” he mutters and Rick smiles at him. He takes Judith with him when he leads the man to the downstairs bathroom. He shows him the towels, hairbrush, spare toothbrush and all hygiene products and then, just in case, explains what is what. He leaves the man to it as he goes upstairs to change Judith into a clean dress, because some of the man's grime transferred to her clothes while he was holding her. He also picks up some of the clothes Shane left over when he last dropped by. It's not much, just some underwear, sweats, a t-shirt and a hoodie, but it's all clean and intact, so he reckons it must be an improvement. He puts the clothing by the door and goes back to the kitchen to prepare the lunch for all of them.

Judith sits on her tall chair, wiggling her little toes happily, all of the events from the last half hour already forgotten. Rick doesn't think he'll be able to forget the trauma of the day that easily. He's probably going to keep her in his eyesight all the time from now on until she's, like fifty years old.

Because she was almost kidnapped and, as a result, almost killed. What the fuck. Wasn't Alexandria supposed to be the safest place on Earth for families? He'll have to call Shane later if he doesn't come up first, to ask him what the hell is going on here. Shane's the deputy, he probably knows all there is to know about any baby-snatchers in the area. Fucking baby-snatchers.

The man returns to the kitchen right on time. He's fully dressed in Shane's spares save for his boots because Rick doesn't have shoes to offer him. Rick can see he's scrubbed squeaky clean: his hands and his face are actually a few shades lighter and his hair's not dark brown all the way like it appeared under all the dirt, but has sandy brown tips, as though it'd been bleached at some point. Without the layers of grub on him, the man looks younger, probably in his late thirties like Rick, give or take a few years, even with the unkempt beard. He still looks like a trapped animal, though. Rick doesn't think this is going to change any time soon.

He sets up the plates at the table and serves the food, and he tries not to watch the man when he eats as though he'd been starving. Instead, he takes Judith out of her chair and sets her in his lap to feed her some chopped up apples and tangerines. It's a very absorbing task, so he almost doesn't notice how the man wolfs everything down in mere minutes and then chases the remains of sauce with his fingers which he then licks clean. He doesn't miss the longing glance the man steals at Rick's untouched plate, though; he smiles and pushes the plate in the man's direction.

“Eat up,” he says encouragingly. “I'm not that hungry. I'll fix something up for myself later.”

He expects the man to argue like he did before accepting the invitation outside, but instead, he's just rewarded with a nod before the man digs in. It makes Rick feel a pang of pity because it means hunger won against the man's pride, and Rick wonders how long it must've been since the man's last fulfilling meal. How does a man in his prime come to live in the park? Why doesn't he seek help? There must be some kind of social services around here. Someone who can find the man a place to stay, a job, something. Isn't there?

Rick doesn't ask. He finishes feeding Judith and washes his sticky hands of the juice she managed to get everywhere. He puts her back into her chair and lets her play with the big plastic spoon she really likes to gnaw on. She's probably going to start teething soon. Oh, joy.

He picks up the plates after the homeless man finishes his second serving and deposits them in the dishwasher. To be honest, he doesn't know what to do next. So, he decides to try talking. A little small talk never killed anyone.

“It just occurred to me that I never introduced myself,” he starts. “I'm Rick Grimes, this little princess is my daughter Judith.”

The man nods and, after a moment's hesitation, replies: “Daryl.”

Rick grins. And he has an idea. “Now that we know each other, how about I show you to the guest bedroom? See, I had qualms about letting a stranger sleep in the house, but now you're not a stranger anymore. What do you say?”

Immediately, Rick knows he's said the wrong thing because the man – Daryl – looks at him with piercing eyes, suspicious all over again. Everything about his tense posture screams _trapped animal_ and Rick realizes that of course, he screwed this up. It's like he took a feral cat and tried to domesticate it without even giving it a transitioning period. Damn, he's bad at this.

“Or, you know what, forget I said that,” he tries to amend, but the man is already on his feet.

“Gotta go,” he says. For a moment, he looks conflicted. “Thank you,” he whispers finally. For some reason, his face is flushed when he says it and it hits Rick that the man must be feeling humiliated. Can he be just so fiercely prideful as to refuse shelter when it's freely offered? It's so stupid. Would it really be so bad to accept help from somebody who simply wants to show appreciation for what he's done?

But Rick can't argue, won't argue about it. He'd like to help, but ultimately, what Daryl does is not his business.

“Did you leave your clothes in the bathroom?” He asks instead of trying to stop the man.

Daryl inclines his head in a small motion of confirmation. He's frowning, likely wondering what this has got to do with anything.

Rick smiles. “I'll have them washed, see if they can be salvaged. You can come pick them up tomorrow if you'd like.”

He's pretty sure he's going to burn the dirty rags in the backyard later, but if Daryl shows up, Rick might be able to get some food in him again and maybe get him some new clothes as an apology. He can't say why he cares so much, but he just feels it's not right that there's a homeless guy in this little suburban paradise and nobody's trying to do anything about it. He's sure as hell not going to leave it alone.

The man says nothing for the longest time. He seems to be lost in thought. Finally, he moves to the entrance door and Rick follows him, Judith in tow. He wonders if he could offer Daryl a blanket to go, because he doesn't have a jacket that might fit him and he doesn't think nights are all that warm in early April. But that might be overdoing it, and the last thing Rick wants is to scare the man away. So he leaves it alone. He'll try later.

They stop by the door and Daryl looks up at Judith a moment before he meets Rick's eyes for the first time. “Ye watch 'er careful, man,” he says softly. Then he looks down at Judith again and the corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “So long, lil' ass-kicker,” he mutters and he's out the door before Rick can say anything else.

Rick watches him go for a moment. He chuckles, closing the door after the man disappears from sight. “Little ass-kicker, huh?” He asks his daughter who giggles in response. Not bad, as far as nicknames go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are had and decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I lied I can't wait until Saturday to post new chapter... So this story will be updated twice a week.

Shane comes to see him roughly half an hour after Daryl's departure. He's in uniform, so the visit is semi-official which Rick thinks is only proper. After all, his daughter did get kidnapped and her kidnapper did get hit by a car in the escape attempt. He's lucky he hasn't been formally questioned at the station, what with being an eyewitness and all. Knowing people helps avoid the fuss, it seems. So Rick tucks Judith safely in her crib upstairs, sets up the baby monitor and joins Shane down in the living room to give his statement which, as he expected, gets carefully written up.

“Man, that's sick. Guy just grabbed her from your backyard? Just like that? That's just real weird,” Shane says after Rick's done relating the whole thing.

“Yeah. No warning at all. I almost didn't notice,” Rick admits, shaking his head. “Don't know what I'd have done if not for Daryl.”

Shane looks confused for a second at the mention of the name, then remembers. “The hobo from the park,” he says. He laughs when Rick gives him a look. “Oh, come on, it's just a word. Ain't like I'm gonna call him that to his face or something. No need for you to get offended on his account, anyway, he's just some homeless dude.”

“That homeless dude saved my daughter's life,” Rick reminds him coolly. He doesn't like Shane when he's like this. Some things are no laughing matter. Homelessness is one of those things.

“Yeah, alright, he did, but that doesn't mean you've got to hero-worship him now or something. Damn, far as I concerned, you paid him back and more. Gave him my stuff, fed him good. Be glad he didn't take you up on the guest bedroom offer,” Shane says and claps him on the shoulder.

Rick sighs. “I just don't like this, man,” he says. “It's wrong, ain't it? It's a luxury community but there we go, a guy lives in the streets and we do nothing, we just look away.”

“If you want him out of the neighborhood, just say the word, I'll arrange it,” Shane offers.

The words are like a punch in the gut. They make Rick feel sick to his stomach. He stares at Shane like he's seeing him for the first time. It's hard to believe, at this moment, that this guy is actually his best friend. Rick doesn't even know what to say to him other than to fuck off. Which he does say. Firmly. A bit too angrily, maybe. Shane's a good guy, he really is, he's the type to play with orphans, help elderly ladies cross the street and retrieve kittens from trees. He's a decent guy, but sometimes he just doesn't know how to stop also being a bag of dicks. In some aspects, he reminds Rick of Lori. He's all about appearances, too, about looking good in society. He'll do stuff to be liked. He's a cop, he should know better, but instead of wanting to help people, he's... well, this.

Eventually, Shane leaves, mildly insulted and possibly very confused about Rick's reaction. He'll get over it, Rick's sure of that, so he doesn't dwell on it. It's the same as when Rick told him about his decision to go through with the divorce, or when they had that fight about gays when some actor or actress came out in their speech during an awards show. Shane thinks about appearances a lot. He thinks when a man marries a woman, they're supposed to remain married, even if one of them cheats or when they come to a mutual agreement that the marriage isn't all that great anymore, or both. He thinks homosexuality is all fine and dandy as long as it's not flaunted in people's faces, because he doesn't have anything against gays, but he doesn't want to know what gross stuff they do in bed together. He's not a bad guy, Shane Walsh. He's just... a big, dumb idiot who really doesn't mean to hurt anyone, but kind of always ends up saying the exact wrong things.

At least before he left, he promised to send double the patrols around the street, just in case anything suspicious happened.

Agitated, Rick goes to the downstairs bathroom where he thinks he's going to have to take care of a potential mess Daryl left, but when he steps inside, he's surprised at how clean the room is. Daryl's clothes are folded neatly on the floor. Any water which might've been spilled from the shower was wiped. Nothing is missing, well, except for the spare toothbrush, but Rick won't begrudge Daryl that. Smiling a little, frustration left by Shane's thick-headedness subsiding, Rick checks the man's clothes. He decides most of it isn't salvageable, with the notable exception of the leather vest with angel wings sewn on the back which looks well-worn but almost undamaged. Cherished, or something. Rick decides he'll have it dry cleaned or something. He's pretty sure it's not machine-washable, and he doesn't want to destroy it in case it's got sentimental value. He's trying to help Daryl, not to piss him off.

He opens the door at the soft knock and lets Tara Chambler in, smiling when she offers him a jar of home-made strawberry jam. She waits as Rick quickly replenishes water in the cat bowl on the porch, then she follows Rick to the kitchen and takes her usual seat at the table. She doesn't say anything for a while, waiting while Rick makes coffee and whips out the crackers. It's a companionable silence, until it isn't.

“You know, the others are talking,” she informs him.

Rick gives her an inquisitive look. Tara squirms a little under it. She's young and easily intimidated, so Rick makes himself look somewhat softer. Scaring her isn't his intention. She's probably just trying to help, in her own way.

“Well, you know. About that guy you brought home. The homeless guy.”

“What about him?” Rick asks. He's equal parts irritated that his decision to repay Daryl for everything he did became a source for gossip and curious about what they all have to say.

“Weren't you worried? He could have stolen something,” says Tara and takes a sip of coffee.

“I wasn't and he didn't,” Rick replies calmly. “He was very polite. And even if he was rude and made off with, I don't know, my non-existent silverware, it still wouldn't have changed the fact he saved my daughter.”

“Maybe,” Tara agrees in a meek voice meant to placate him. “Listen, we're just worried. You know you're very well liked in the community, Rick. We wouldn't like anything bad to happen to you just because you're too trusting...”

“I used to be a cop, I'm not some wide-eyed babe you need to warn off of talking to strangers,” Rick informs her drily, chuckling when he notes her surprise at the tone. While his previous occupation hasn't come up during many of the neighborly activities he's participated in since moving here last summer, he definitely didn't hide it from Tara.

Sighing, Tara drops a sugar cube into her cup of coffee. She always does that after drinking half of it bitter. She's a quirky girl. “Just be careful, okay? Strangers aren't always nice, not even here. I know this place must seem like a safe zone to you after the big city, but we've had our share of troublemakers here, too. I don't know about that guy, I mean he seems harmless enough, but... Guys often do.”

After Tara leaves about twenty minutes later, Rick spends the rest of the early afternoon thinking about her words and cleaning until Judith wakes up. He changes Judith's diaper and plays with her for a while before it's time to get started on dinner. Carl's going to be home in a few hours and he's going to expect the stuffed bell peppers Rick promised him. Being a stay-at-home dad has its challenges, like the expectation that he can cook complicated shit like that, but Rick thinks it also has its perks. For example, he has the time to learn how to cook complicated shit. He checks out the recipe on the Internet and gets to work.

He whistles some upbeat melody while he chops up the ingredients. Judith is in her chair, dividing her attention equally between drawing and sticking the crayon in her mouth. Rick's not worried because he specifically bought her edible crayons as soon as he learned such a thing exists. He's pretty sure they must be disgusting, but there's no accounting for taste and anyway, it's been quite a few years since he was a baby, so he's really not the expert here. Judith seems to enjoy her crayons, so he's not going to spoil her fun. Instead, he sings her a nursery rhyme she liked on TV and is rewarded with some very happy chirping.

Cooking while also taking care of an infant is a tiresome ordeal, but he manages it somehow. He takes the finished peppers out from the oven and sets them on the counter to cool off before he picks Judith up and taking her upstairs. He wraps her safely in the baby sling for the time being and hangs the laundry to dry on the terrace, taking advantage of the fact there's still a good few hours of sunlight left. Once this is done, he takes Judith back to the garden for all of three minutes which he needs to pour some water and cat food for the old tomcat that's been visiting every evening of late. Throughout it all, he's talking to Judith about the merits of helping people. Never let it be said that infants aren't great conversationalists. Rick's pretty sure he never held a discussion as thorough and balanced as the one he's just had with his daughter about the finer points of human compassion.

It all burns down to this: there's a homeless man living in his neighborhood and Rick's done with willfully ignoring this situation. Not because Daryl is an undesirable element in his otherwise perfect life in Alexandria, but because he can no longer tolerate the fact that his daughter's savior sleeps on park benches and probably eats scraps from trash cans.

Judging by her input which consists mostly of humming noises and giggles, Judith very much agrees with Rick's decision. He just hopes Carl will be as understanding.

It's half past six when Carl returns from school. Rick waits for him with dinner already on the table. They eat and talk about Carl's day, then Carl takes Judith to feed her because he loves to do it. Even at his rebellious stage, which has probably lasted since his mother... well, since then, even now Carl's still a good kid, a good brother. Rick is proud of him something fierce.

Which is why, once they put Jude to bed and lounge around together in the living room, Carl doing some Maths homework that looks needlessly complicated from where Rick is sitting, Rick tells his son all about what happened this morning.

Carl's much more chill about the whole thing than Shane was. Oh, he freaks out about the near-kidnapping and near-death experience of Judith, of course, he freaks out so much he has to run upstairs to check if his little sister is really fast asleep in her crib. He returns downstairs calmer, but it isn't for a good fifteen minutes more that he is able to concentrate on the equations in his notebook again. Rick observes him silently, waiting for his son to be ready to talk again on his own terms. Rushing him wouldn't work. If there's something on Carl's mind, Rick has to be patient if he wants to find out.

Eventually, Carl snaps the notebook shut and inhales a long breath. “Dad... What if it's happening again?”

And isn't that the shit.

Two days after Jude was born, a fire broke out in the natal unit where they kept her. By the time the newborns were evacuated, half of the hospital was on fire. Thirty-two people died that night, four of the medical staff and twenty-eight patients. Rick's wife Lori wasn't one of them. She died due to internal bleeding resulting from her doctor's mistake during childbirth, two days prior. That was over a year and a half ago.

Not two weeks had passed before another incident: Jude's babysitter was brutally attacked on her way to Rick's house. She ended up with three broken ribs, cracked jaw and lots of bruising. Her family broke off all contact with Rick, claiming it was somehow his fault. They didn't elaborate, but the fact remained and the girl didn't try to contact Rick ever again.

Then about three months later, Rick was shot when he was on a walk with little Judith during his lunch break. He was just finishing putting her back in the stroller after having spent a good ten minutes trying to stop her crying when he heard the ringing noise of the gunshot and suddenly everything was _pain_. Judith was safe, thank God, but Rick spent the next two months in bed and later two more months doing PT. He never returned to work after that, he opted for the early retirement plan he was offered.

Then the trial started and basically ended sooner than anyone expected because Rick took the deal. He wouldn't have, not before he was shot, but actually getting seriously hurt helped him put things into perspective. He was a widower with two kids. Out of a job he used to love. Money doesn't grow on trees, not when there's a baby and a growing boy to take care of. The amount the hospital's legal team offered was mind-boggling. Enough to sell the old house in Atlanta and move here to the nice, suburban community in Alexandria where his kids could grow up safe.

Carl claimed their family was cursed. Apparently, even though he hasn't mentioned it since the move, he still believes it in some capacity. And Rick really wishes he could help assuage his fears.

“Shane promised to keep in touch. He'll let us know about the investigation,” Rick promises softly.

Carl frowns, but he nods his acknowledgment. He looks troubled. Then, he asks, “Do you think that Daryl guy could be in on it?”

It startles Rick that he hasn't wondered about that for even a second. As an ex-cop, he really should have been at least a tiny bit suspicious, but... No. Even for a second there, he didn't get the impression that the homeless man who saved his daughter was anything but honest. He tells Carl as much and gets a thoughtful hum in response.

“So maybe he's good luck,” the kid says. “Like a talisman, or you know, a ward. Maybe we should keep him.”

They marathoned a show on cable about a group of teenagers fighting some supernatural shit last week when Carl was too sick to go to school. Rick picked up some useful pointers about getting rid of demons. He also saw too many teenagers fawning over each other. He's too old for that shit.

“He's a person, Carl,” he says, shaking his head, amused in spite of himself. “He's not a cat. We can't _keep him_. You haven't even met him. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to _keep him_ if you did.”

“You wanted to,” Carl reminds him simply. “And you say he saved Jude. That's enough for me. He's as well as already adopted into this family and you know it.”

That makes Rick chuckle, because... well. It's true. If it wasn't, he's sure he wouldn't be thinking about what sandwiches to make in the morning that he could inconspicuously pass off as Carl's forgotten lunch and somehow convince the homeless man to take so it doesn't go to waste. In case they happen upon each other. Obviously, Rick has no intention of purposefully searching for Daryl just to give him some food. Absolutely not.

He's just going to take Judith to the park in the morning. And he'll damn well take the sandwiches along.

“Michonne's going to like it here, isn't she?” Carl asks, changing the subject.

Rick grins. “Sure she is,” he agrees. “For a while, at least. Don't be disappointed if she doesn't stay long, though, okay? You know how she is.”

“I know.”

They both know. Michonne is. Well. She's Michonne. For lack of a better word, Michonne is Rick's sister. She's family even though there are no blood ties between them. She's this one person in Rick's life he could always depend on, no matter what, no questions asked. In another life, he'd probably be in love with her, because how the hell could he not be? He's pretty sure he's a little in love with her in this life, too. Everyone is. Lori was a little jealous, for a time. Before she understood, too. Michonne, she's just. She's brilliant, she's wonderful, she understands him and knows when he deserves to have his ass kicked, and. She's everything.

She's also ex-spec ops. Rick doesn't know much about her job but what Michonne told him and sometimes, it's still too much. She's a year younger than Rick, retired five years ago and she's got enough PTSD to last the both of them for several lifetimes.

They met when Carl was a baby. She's the reason Carl is even alive now. Donors aren't really supposed to meet the people who get their bone marrow, but both Michonne and Rick had been very stubborn. It was worth it, so worth it. Still is. There was not a single moment in all the time they've known each other when Rick wasn't simply grateful to have someone like her. Michonne is his goddamn guardian angel, his and Carl's.

Sometimes, Michonne lives with them. Sometimes she doesn't. There are months when there's not as much as a text message. There are days when they're on the phone for hours, catching up and reminiscing. They can laugh together, cry together. After Lori died, Michonne just held him for as long as he needed. Took care of Carl. Took care of Judith. But most of all, she took care of Rick. Got him to a place he needed to go. There's not a single aspect of his life Rick wouldn't entrust her with. He knows Michonne trusts him just as much. They're soulmates, if such a thing even exists.

He can't wait for her to arrive next month. She promised _sometime in May_ and she would never break a promise, especially one made in Carl's presence.

It's late at night when he's reading in bed that Rick wonders, _Will Michonne approve of Daryl?_ Then he chuckles. Of course she will.

She loves cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Michonne. I want to be her or Daryl when I grow up, lol.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick takes Judith and some sandwiches out for a walk in the park.

Rick does indeed take Judith and the sandwiches for a walk in the park the following early afternoon. He's not sure how to feel about the fact that he spent the good portion of the morning preparing food for some random dude he hadn't even acknowledged the existence of until yesterday, but well, that's what he did. He's made turkey sandwiches , and some with cheese and ham, then a couple plain old peanut butter and jell-o. It's probably a bit of an overkill, but then again, he doesn't know how often Daryl has access to food. He doesn't suppose it's going to be easy to invite the man over for dinner at any rate, so there's really nothing wrong about supplying him with a dozen sandwiches to make sure he doesn't go hungry.

It's not weird or anything. Just a guy helping out another guy who's got it tough, that's all.

Daryl isn't there when Rick arrives at the park, but it's okay. Rick has a lot of time on his hands today. He doesn't even need to make dinner for Carl who's going to a friend's place a few houses down the street after school to work on some project. He just has to call Carl if he's not home around eight, to remind him about curfews and stuff.

Rick pushes the stroller along the alley that rounds the pond. He stops a bit when Judith sees a mother duck and six of her ducklings swimming by. He grins as Judith flails her tiny arms like she's trying to reach the ducks. She's babbling happily at them, and Rick can kind of understand the excitement. He always thought ducklings were cute, too, all fluffy and fat. Maybe in summer, he'll pack the kids up and drive them down to the Greene farm for a little vacation. There's bound to be some adorable farm animals and he's sure old Hershel Greene would love to see Rick's kids again.

The ducks are plenty entertaining to Judith, so Rick finds a bench where he can sit facing the pond and he takes Judith out of the stroller. She's dressed in a little denim jumper skirt, a pink plain jersey and a jacket with a Disney princess embroidery in the back. Rick can't tell what princess this is, he can't tell them apart despite having watched what feels like hundreds of princess movies over and over with his little girl. He can sing every goddamn Disney song in existence or close to it, but he sincerely doesn't know which of these characters is supposed to be Cinderella and which one is Elsa. He's pretty sure the black princess' name is Tiana, though. He likes that one.

They watch the ducks. Tara walks past them with her wife Denise, they both wave at Rick and Judith but they don't stop. If Rick's not mistaken, it's Denise's lunch break at the hospital and the two young women always spend that time together on little dates. It's heartwarming. Rick likes seeing people in love, even though it makes him feel both old and melancholic. It's been a long time since he was in love. He and Lori, they loved each other for a long time, but not so much in the last couple of years of their marriage. They still liked each other, they were still friends and the sex was still okay, but it was just not what either of them wanted from life. It wasn't an easy situation to solve. They had a son to think of, and just because they weren't crazy in love with each other anymore didn't mean they couldn't be happy together. It took months before they finally decided to get a divorce. They never did because that was when Lori found out she was pregnant with Judith.

Rick is still wearing his wedding ring, but he moved it to his right hand like some widowers do. He's still sad that Lori is gone, he's still not over her unexpected passing. She was supposed to always be there even after they eventually got that divorce. They were supposed to have joint custody of their children, they were supposed to raise Carl and Judith as a loving family even if they were not together anymore. It's so unfair that it took nothing but for some stupid miserable bastard to make a rookie mistake during emergency c-section and suddenly what was supposed to be a happy day for their family became a tragedy.

A year and a half is not enough to fully recover from that.

Eventually, Judith is bored with the ducks and demands that Rick feed her. Or something. One day, either Rick will learn to understand her language or she will have to start speaking English if they want to uphold some kind of communication standards. For now, Rick arbitrarily decides that her gurgling noises and the amount of drool on her chin mean she's hungry, so he retrieves the lunchbox and feeds Judith pieces of her favorite oatmeal and cranberry cookie. She makes a mess of herself and of his hand, of course, and Rick laughs when Judith bites at his fingers to get at all the crumbs.

And that's when he notices Daryl on the bench on the other side of the pond.

“Look who's there, princess,” he says to Judith who coos at him. “Yeah, I thought so too. Let's go say hi.”

He doesn't strap her back in the stroller, just picks her up more comfortably and heads slowly in the direction of the homeless man, pushing the stroller in front of him. He likes to carry Judith as much as he can because it's only a matter of time before she's able to walk and run, and he's going to miss this. Children grow up so fast and he already lost so much time after he was shot.

Daryl inclines his head in greeting when he sees Rick approach. He clearly doesn't expect Rick to stop and his eyes narrow in suspicion when Rick grins at him.

“Hello there,” Rick says cheerfully. “What a coincidence that we'd meet here. Judith was just telling me how she wanted to see her hero again and behold! Here he is.”

Technically, he's not lying. It might very well be exactly what Judith was telling him. He has no way of checking. Neither does Daryl, unless he's the only person in the world fluent in baby. But Daryl either believes him, or he knows he's bullshitting and doesn't care. He only grunts in response and looks away, averting Rick's friendly gaze.

“Hey, I was wondering,” Rick sits down on the bench, mindful not to sit too close to the homeless man. Judith immediately starts wiggling like she's trying to free herself. She stretches her arms to Daryl and makes kissy noises. Rick chuckles, amused when Daryl blushes.

“Told you, man, she loves you,” Rick announces, but he holds Judith firmly in his grip. He doesn't want her to fall off the bench and lose what few teeth she already has.

“Anyway, I was wondering. See, I spent half the morning making sandwiches for my son Carl and his friends at school, you know, sometimes I do that so other parents don't have to because I don't work,” he explains. It's true, actually. It's something he does. He likes making himself useful and anyway, kids love his food. He makes them sandwiches or other simple snacks. It's just that this time, he didn't.

“Thing is, Carl was in such a hurry to leave this morning, he sort of forgot to take them. I didn't notice and now it's too late. I'm left with a bunch of food and nobody to eat it,” he finishes with a sigh.

Daryl's face is scrunched up in a frown. Rick's pretty sure the man doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth. He wouldn't believe it either. He's a terrible liar.

“There's peanut butter,” he adds.

Daryl blinks, confused, and looks at him as though asking him to clarify what that's got to do with anything.

“If you'd like, you can have them. Otherwise, I'll have to throw them away,” Rick informs him. It's not really true. He'd never throw away food. He'd rather just eat the damn sandwiches himself. But Daryl doesn't need to know that.

“... ain't hungry,” Daryl mutters which is obviously a lie. He licks his lips nervously and looks away again.

“Maybe not right now, but you may be later,” Rick tells him. “You'd be doing me a favor. I hate it when food goes to waste.”

The homeless man hesitates. He seems to be conflicted, as if there's a part of him violently opposed to accepting any sort of help no matter what. Finally, he sighs and then offers an almost imperceptible nod. Amazed at how easily he's managed to convince him, Rick retrieves the paper bag of sandwiches and hands it to Daryl. He's careful not to watch too pointedly as the man takes one one of the sandwiches, unwraps it and devours it in a few bites.

“Thanks, man,” Rick says warmly. “Really, there's nothing worse than food going to trash when someone out there might appreciate it.”

Daryl stops mid-unwrapping another sandwich. He looks up at Rick suspiciously.

“Wha'dya want in return? I ain't got nuthin' to give,” he mutters.

Rick shakes his head. “I already told you, you're doing me a solid here. And even if it wasn't that, come on, you saved my daughter's life. By my reckoning, I'm still indebted to you.”

Daryl bites his lower lip. He seems to accept Rick's reasoning at last and he finishes unwrapping the sandwich, then eats it, much slower than the first one. He's a neat eater, not a crumb nor a speck of anything escapes his mouth. He licks his fingers when he's finished. He puts the rest of the sandwiches in his worn backpack to save them for later.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

“You're welcome,” Rick replies, but what he means is _you deserve it, all of it and more_. He doesn't say it because he's pretty sure the man wouldn't like it. If he wants to help Daryl, he's going to have to take it slow. It really is somewhat reminiscent of how a feral cat should be handled. Step one: bribe it with food. Don't touch, don't try to take it home, don't be overbearing. Give it food and leave.

So Rick stands up, adjusts Judith in his arms and smiles. “Well, guess we've gotta go back. There's a whole lot of work waiting for us, isn't there, miss sunshine?” He asks his daughter who coos in reply and holds out a hand to clutch at his beard. It's not exactly pleasant. She's got a tough grip for someone so small.

Wincing only a little, Rick nods at Daryl and walks away, pushing the stroller in front of him and silently cursing the beard. He's going to shave the whole damn thing off. He's let it get too long.

The afternoon goes by quietly. Rick replenishes the water and cat food in the yard and on the porch. He tends quickly to the garden, checks if the gate out back is closed as it should be, then he does some cleaning and baking. Shane drops by around six with an apology and an update on the case which isn't much, just that the baby-snatcher wasn't from around here but was apparently a well-known thug down in Atlanta. Rick accepts the apology and the news, and offers Shane an oatmeal-almond-banana cookie from the fresh batch he's just taken out of the oven.

“Fuck, this is some good shit,” Shane comments.

“Yeah, Judith likes them,” Rick says and gives himself a moment to ponder how amazing it is that he's managed to transition so smoothly from a big-city cop to a suburban housewife all in the matter of a year and a half. He even has an apron to show for it. It's pink and has a big, glittery inscription on the front saying _Kiss the cook_. Lori bought it for him as a joke a few years back.

Shane stares at it funny for a moment. He shakes his head and plops down on the chair by the counter. He looks somewhat troubled. Rick doesn't ask. He knows Shane can't keep anything bottled down for too long.

“Heard you talked to that hobo again.”

Here it comes.

“Daryl, yes,” Rick corrects him with no real ire in his voice.

“Yeah, that guy. What's up with that? Andrea saw you two all cozy in the park,” Shane accuses, or at least his tone does because for the life of him, Rick can't tell what it is he's being accused of by the words.

“I made food for Carl in the morning but he forgot to take it, so I gave it to Daryl,” he says, shrugging like it's not a big deal. And really, it shouldn't be.

“Riiight,” Shane drawls. “Listen, I know it's not my place or anything but I gotta say this. Are you sure you want your daughter to see all that?”

Rick frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. That guy's not exactly model citizen,” Shane says. “Hell, the ugly motherfucker may be dangerous. For all we know, he's some junkie from God-knows-where and he's gonna turn on you before you blink. And even if he doesn't, I don't know, man. A hobo is a hobo. Wouldn't want _that_ close to my kids if I were you.”

“You're not me,” Rick snaps. He was thinking about offering Shane a beer and making popcorn. There's a game on TV tonight, they could watch it together. Be buddies. Get all of this shit behind them.

He's no longer considering it.

Shane holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “I'm just trying to look out for you, mate. I know how you get about helping folks and stuff. Just, not sure this guy's worth it. He looks like trouble to me.”

“We'll be fine, Shane,” Rick tells him firmly. “Believe it or not, I know how to deal with trouble.”

Shane huffs a laugh at this. “Yeah, I know you do. Always admired you for that, man. You're the toughest motherfucker this side of the Potomac. I mean, look at all that shit's happened to you. Nobody I know would've bounced back from this and landed on four feet.”

“I got my family,” Rick says. Maybe he could reconsider that beer and game.

Shane grins at him. “And they got you, man, they got you. Can't hide it, though, I envy you a little. You know, the house, the kids, all the time in the world to play in your little garden. Won't say you don't deserve it, because fuck me if you don't, but damn. What a dream!”

“You'd hate every second of it,” Rick informs him seriously.

They both burst out laughing at the idea of Shane settling down with kids and planting tomatoes in his backyard. Rick gives up his resentment for the time being and offers Shane a beer. They end up watching the game, interrupted only once when Rick has to go retrieve Judith from her bedroom and change her diaper. She plays with an interactive toy police car on the carpet in the living room for some time, not bothered in the slightest by her dad and his friend's antics even when they shout at the TV. Carl returns home about half past eight, says hi to Shane and offers to take Judith upstairs. She complains a little when Rick kisses her forehead goodnight, probably not due to his scratchy beard, but because he stinks of beer.

“Just don't drink too much, dad,” Carl reminds him, “you've got your doctor's appointment in the morning.”

Rick completely forgot. What would he do without his wonderful, beautiful children?

“Ugh, dad, stop embarrassing me and yourself,” Carl whines, so Rick reckons he must have said that out loud. Maybe he's had enough beer for the night. It's been a while since he had any alcohol.

Carl leaves with Judith and a couple of cookies. Shane drains one more beer before he starts getting up.

“Got work in the morning,” he explains. “Not all of us can afford an early retirement.”

Rick doesn't tell him he'd rather Lori were alive. He knows it's just teasing and Shane doesn't mean anything by it. It's just his damn mouth. He really doesn't know when to stick a foot in it.

Before he goes, Shane clutches Rick's shoulder and, looking really serious like it's taking a lot out of him, he asks, “We good, man?”

And Rick finds he can't hold a grudge against his best friend after all. “We good,” he promises.

He takes a quick shower after Shane's gone and considers shaving, but he's not sure he should attempt such a feat in his inebriated state. He's rather fond of his throat and doesn't want to slit it by a sleight of hand. He might do it tomorrow. He'll see. He kind of likes having a beard. It gives him a more relaxed, hipster-like look. He always used to be clean-shaven as a cop. Lori liked him better that way. She never liked facial hair much.

Later in his bed, Rick wonders if Daryl likes facial hair. The thought is forgotten even before he falls asleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick talks at Daryl and makes a mistake. Carl hates dad jokes. Judith likes spiders a little too much.

On Thursday, he brings Daryl pancakes.

It's exponentially more difficult to come up with an excuse for it than it was with the sandwiches because the pancakes are still warm when he hands them to Daryl without waiting for the homeless man to question him. Daryl accepts the food, albeit grudgingly if his suspicious squinting is anything to go by, and he looks at it like he's afraid it might eat him instead of the other way around.

“These for yer son, too?” He asks doubtfully, picking up the plastic fork Rick made sure to include with the Tupperware box. It's pink and has a pattern etched in the handle shaped like a ribbon with a crown on top. It's not intentional. It came with a dish set he bought impulsively for Judith which she can’t really use yet because it’s suitable for ages three and above. It’s a Barbie Princess set and it's completely functional, so he's sure Daryl shouldn't mind the color of the fork.

Rick decides to be honest this time. “No, we made them for you,” he gestures at himself and Judith who is, for once, asleep in the baby sling. She likes it more than the stroller and so does Rick, even if the pastel-colored, floral-patterned wrap cloth looks a little silly and clashes with this _civilized caveman slash sexy lumberjack_ thing he's got going on. He hasn't shaved his beard yet. Maybe tomorrow.

“Mind you, little princess here wasn't much help. She mostly sampled the finished product. I'm afraid she ate at least half of the strawberries, that's why some of it is strawberry jam instead of fresh fruit mousse.”

“Why?” Daryl asks softly. He seems slightly lost.

Rick knows what he's asking, but is purposefully obtuse anyway. “Well, she likes strawberries a whole lot. She'll eat any fruit, though. And some veggies. Can't wait until my tomatoes are a thing, there's nothing quite like freshly picked tomatoes. Plus I’ve been dying to try that tomato and banana cake recipe...”

Daryl is frowning at him. He bites down on his lip and looks as though he might stomp off.

“Man, I told you already,” Rick says, exasperated. “My kids, they're everything to me. Everything. And thanks to you, this little girl is still with me. That's no small thing you did for me. Can’t just leave it, okay?”

“Others would,” Daryl points out.

He might be right. He is right, if Shane's prejudiced views are anything to go by. Rick doesn't really care, though. He’s so done with conforming to what society deems appropriate. “Eat your goddamn pancakes, man,” he demands, shaking his head, but he smiles while he's saying it.

Daryl grunts something that sounds like it may be a _thank you_ but might just as well be a _fuck you_ , and it makes Rick chuckle. When Daryl digs in, Rick makes an effort not to watch the man eat; instead, he takes out a Stephen King book and finds the place he bookmarked last time he picked it up. He's rarely in the mood for reading, not to mention that with a toddler at home, he really doesn’t really have a moment to spare, but he figures it's a good way to pass some time at the park. Step two of handling feral cats: spend time around them, but do not interact beyond giving them food. Let them come to you. He can totally pull that off.

He hears Daryl make a soft noise of what sounds to him strongly like some fierce appreciation of his cooking. Rick smiles but doesn't look up from the book, pretending he’s much immersed in what’s going on in the story. He's not even sure what the main character is talking about killing, it's been too long since he picked it up, but that's not the point. If he was really interested in the book, he'd have finished it back when he first started reading.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Daryl finish the pancakes in record time. He doesn't react in any way, he doesn’t ask if it was good or anything else that might spook Daryl and cause him to flee. The homeless man sets the Tupperware box on the bench within Rick’s reach and searches in his backpack for a cigarette which he pushes between his lips. He lifts a lighter to it, then pauses and casts a quick look at Judith sleeping in her father's arms. He puts the lighter back in the backpack and removes the cigarette which he sticks behind his ear for later. Rick smiles again, strangely proud of how considerate the man is. Proud and sort of vindicated, because someone who stops himself from smoking just because there is a baby can’t be a bad person. See that, Shane?

“You know, she's pretty tired because we had quite a trip this morning,” Rick says, putting away the book. He's read maybe five sentences anyway. Daryl grunts something that might be an acknowledgment, so Rick continues:

“I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. Damn, but I hate these. I keep forgetting them on purpose, but Carl - that’s my son, he's thirteen - he always reminds me. I swear, sometimes he's more mature than me, at least about some things.”

He pauses. He picks up a water bottle, takes a sip and offers the bottle to Daryl. The man accepts it almost without question. He's looking vaguely in Rick's direction which hopefully indicates he's listening.

“See, I was shot fourteen months ago when I was on a walk with Jude. It messed me up quite a bit. For a while there, I had to be on some serious medication. Kept me from going insane, but gave me the nastiest depression ever. It was just a little bit after losing Lori, and almost losing Jude in that fire, and I guess it was all too much. I didn't think I had anything to live for. Wouldn't even get up to take care of Jude. Thank God my sister was there or I don't know what would've happened. Old friend of my dad's taken us in back then. Had me work my ass off on his farm, said it would take my mind off of things,” he chuckles at the memory. When Hershel first told him to move his ass and do something useful, Rick flipped him the bird and didn't even get out of bed for the whole day, too busy wallowing in self-pity. In retaliation, or to motivate him to try harder, he wasn't given dinner that night. Hershel didn't call him out or offer any high speeches, he just said only people willing to do their part got to eat. The simple stir-fry Rick had after his first whole day of working the fields was the best meal he'd ever tasted.

“And you know what? It helped. At first, at the end of the day I was just too tired to think about stuff, but then, I started talking more and I spent time with Carl and Judith, and somehow I was getting better. They eventually decided I was well off enough and took me off the meds when I began the PT sessions. I still see the psychiatrist once a month, though. I don't ever wanna be like that guy I became back then. I don't ever wanna let my kids down again.”

Daryl is squinting at him again, looking at him as though searching for some answers, but Rick doesn't even know what the question is. He shakes his head and chuckles mirthlessly.

“I'm not sure why I'm even telling you all this. What's the point? Hell, I don't know. Don't know there's a point to anything I’m doing here,” he says. “Shane's going on about how I shouldn't even be talking to you. Says you might be dangerous. But you know what I think?”

He doesn't wait for the man to answer. “I think you're a good guy. Sure, you got lost somewhere along the way, otherwise you wouldn't be here,” he gestures vaguely at the bench, but he's sure Daryl knows what he means. “But you're still a good guy. I came real close to letting my daughter down two days ago. If not for you, I would have. So I don't really care what Shane says. I'm going to do everything I can to help you.”

Daryl's reaction is peculiar. He flinches like Rick has just physically attacked him, then he gets up and takes a step as if to walk away. But he doesn't and he just stands there awkwardly, undecided. He keeps his head down, hiding his face behind a curtain of hair that's beginning to look bad again. Rick doesn't suppose it's a good time to offer the man the use of his bathroom.

“Ain't need no help,” Daryl says, but it comes out more like a growl. He's suddenly defensive like Rick's never seen him before. “Ye ain't owe me anythin', okay? So jus' leave me tha fuck alone.”

Rick can't fucking believe it. “Why are you like this? Why the fuck can't you just take the help you're given?” He asks sharply.

The homeless man chuckles darkly. “Why, so the likes'a ya can feel better 'bout yerself? Fuck it, man. Ain't a lil' bitch ta roll over and beg for yer scraps,” he says and Rick doesn't even have the time to marvel at the fact that's the longest conversation he's had with Daryl to date, because Daryl leaves in hurried strides. And frankly, Rick's too ashamed of losing it to follow or try to stop him - and a little worried he’d get a punch for his trouble if he followed.

He'll just try again tomorrow. With more patience perhaps. And less talking.

Resigned, Rick returns home, puts Judith to bed and goes out to refill the water and food bowls which keep getting emptied, most likely by that old tomcat he's seen a few times in the yard. He's going to have to come up with a name for the cat if it goes on like this… if he doesn’t screw this up, too. When he's done, he starts on dinner for tonight. Carl's going to bring friends over after school, so Rick's cooking for a small army. He wants to try something French he saw that one time on TV. He went grocery shopping on the way back from the doctor, so he's reasonably sure he has all the required ingredients. He turns on the radio to a classical rock station, just a little something to have some background noise as he starts chopping up the vegetables. He really can't wait to be able to use his own crops. The garden isn't much, but it's certainly got some variety of veggies. They're bound to taste completely different than the kinds he gets at the store. The produce at Hershel’s definitely tasted better.

When he's done cutting up the vegetables, Rick pauses and makes a mark in the calendar that he's supposed to pick up Daryl's leather vest from the cleaner's tomorrow morning while he still remembers. Returning the garment seems like a safe way to get back into Daryl's somewhat good graces. Indifferent graces? Well, to convince him not to be hostile, at least. This is exactly why Rick doesn't foster cats from the rescue. He's great at TNR, but fostering requires so much patience and trust-building, because feral cats don't always socialize easily and Rick's like a kid on a Christmas morning. He wants everything at once.

Somehow, he's managed to get it into his head that he's going to save Daryl from an unhappy life in the streets. It's all fine and noble, but he's pretty sure now that his effort might not be appreciated. He really should've started by asking Daryl what he wanted. Or maybe Shane is right. Maybe he shouldn't get involved at all… but then again, it’s too late for that. He’s already invested in this. Even Carl saw this: Rick’s already as good as adopted Daryl into the family. It’s a done deal. Now Rick only has to convince the homeless man that there is, in fact, a home waiting for him. Gradually. Patiently. Without getting frustrated when the man doesn’t trust him within the first five minutes of conversation. _Get a grip on yourself, Grimes._

Carl didn't mention that the friends he was going to bring over are two girls, which Rick supposes was intentional because had he known, he would've brushed up on his arsenal of dad jokes just to embarrass his son to the highest possible degree. As it is, he only manages to slip a few horrible puns about homework that he'd be ashamed of ever uttering if he was anything other than a father. Carl threatens to teach Judith to swear if he doesn't stop.

“Seriously, dad. I'll make sure her first word is the most offensive slur you've ever heard,” Carl warns seriously.

“It's okay, son, I won't be terribly offended when you teach your sister to say your name,” Rick counters before he can think better of it. It’s the sort of mockery he’d normally use on Shane.

The two girls - Enid and Clementine, Carl introduced them - start laughing and Rick feels a bit sorry for Carl. The kid's face is bright red in humiliation and if the world was a bit more just, Rick would certainly be dead from the power of his glare. Carl doesn't get it. It's not that Rick wants to embarrass him In front of girls. He simply has to. It's his duty as a father.

“I hate you so much,” Carl informs him.

Rick doesn't reply, just beams at his son. He clears away from the kitchen to leave the kids to their business and goes upstairs. He checks on Judith who is miraculously not asleep and also not crying, so he takes her out of her bed and sets up some of her toys. She chooses to build a tower out of wooden blocks which she then happily demolishes, only to build another one which meets the same fate. Babies are so easily entertained, Rick thinks, only to realize he's spent half an hour watching his daughter put blocks on top of each other. He laughs softly and Judith giggles back at him.

“What is it, princess? You mocking your old man?” He asks and Judith babbles something that sounds like nothing at all. For someone absolutely capable of saying “Papa”, she’s very adamant on being as incomprehensible as she can be. Typical woman, mysterious and talkative all at once.

“Well if you say so,” Rick agrees anyway. “Hey, I have an idea. Do you think we should buy a thermos? For Daryl, I mean. He might like some hot coffee or tea from time to time. Hey, it would even work for some good soup. I can make a mean minestrone.”

Judith responds by trying to eat a wooden block with the letter _D_ carved on one side, which Rick takes to mean she likes the idea. Rick makes a mental note to pick up stuff for a variety of soups he knows how to make. They're easier to prepare than most things and can be heated up at any time, plus Carl and Judith both like them. It’s a great family meal.

He imagines what it would be like for the whole family to have dinner together at the dining room table. In his imaginary world, Lori would still be with them, of course, seated between the kids. Carl would laugh as Judith would make a bigger mess than necessary out of her meal. Michonne would glare playfully at Shane from across the table, unable to reach his legs to kick him for a stupid joke Shane would no doubt crack before he could think. And Daryl would look so awkward and out of place at Rick's side, but Rick would do anything to show him he was welcome. Accepted into their family. The vision also includes the neighborhood tomcat for some reason, the old boy stretched on his own chair, asleep and absolutely not interested in any leftovers someone might slip him off the table.

He’s brought out of his fantasy land when Judith makes a high-pitched noise of excitement and crawls to the corner to attack and possibly eat a fat spider weaving its web there. Rick catches her just before she can catch the poor eight-legged creature and end its life in a horrible way. She wiggles her arms as if she's trying to reach the spider anyway, but then she settles on Rick's beard which she gnaws on, slobbering all over it and Rick's t-shirt. There’s teeth and so much spit. Still, Rick supposes it's the better option. At least for the spider. He carefully catches the poor thing and throws it out the window before Judith can get her fat tiny hands on it. It better be grateful.

Much later, when Carl's guests are gone and both kids are asleep, Rick finally gets down to shaving. He regrets it almost as soon as he's done. The face looking back at him from the mirror almost doesn't feel like his own. It's Rick the cop, Rick the husband. The Rick from Atlanta. That miserable son of a gun who lost his wife he didn't love anymore, almost lost his newborn daughter in a freak accident, then got shot and couldn't deal with it. For a moment, he almost feels like he's reverting back to being that guy.

Then he sees the scar at the juncture of his shoulder and collarbone. It's ugly, not at all like all those Hollywood scars heroes always have. The whole thing rises slightly above the surface of skin, its edges are rigged and messy. It's also darker than his complexion, an unsightly contrast against Rick's after-winter paleness. He's been told it's going to become lighter with time. It's never going to fade, but it won't be as starkly visible. He touches the scar with his fingers and frowns at the sensation of... something. Pain? But not quite. It's a curious, tingling feeling. He can feel his heartbeat under the tips of his fingers. The fear of becoming the man he used to be subsides. He's not that Rick Grimes anymore.

He's safe. His children are safe. And if he gets his way, he’s going to make sure Daryl is safe as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Rick was trying to read was King's "The Cell", if anyone was curious.  
> Also, I promise the pace of this story will pick up a little in the next chapter... but not by much. It's supposed to be more a slice-of-life family drama-comedy than anything ;)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble arrives at Rick's doorstep on a rainy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains several descriptions of injuries.  
> Also it's early because I'm probably not going to have the time to post tomorrow.

Despite Rick's numerous and rather suspicious attempts to the contrary, he doesn't happen to meet Daryl for almost two weeks after that Thursday afternoon almost-conversation when he spilled his guts out to the man and then got in his face like an idiot. It's all getting a bit ridiculous because he's already managed to gather quite a wardrobe for the homeless man. Like. Really, Carl calls him a creeper in jokes because he goes about it the same way he does about Judith's cute dresses. Namely, every single time Rick's out in the mall, he comes back with a new cool t-shirt or pair of jeans, or a really sick black leather jacket - none of which items are his size or style. The entire selection, along with Daryl's old angel wings vest, is packed neatly into a suitcase which Rick absolutely didn't buy specifically so that he could keep stuff for Daryl inside. He's also made way too many sandwiches and packed so many lunches, all of which he later had to pathetically eat by himself while pretending he wasn't complaining to his toddler daughter about his rotten luck searching for her savior. Rick doesn't remember if he actually did use to see Daryl in the park all the time before officially meeting him, or if this long-term disappearance is completely normal for the man. He's slightly ashamed he took the presence of a homeless man for granted, even after the man was clearly offended by Rick’s outburst. It’s so stupid. He should have controlled himself better. Truth is, he should have tried to do something to help earlier. Out of simple human decency. He shouldn't have waited until he owed the man a life debt to start thinking of him as someone deserving to live like a person.

This indifference he used to feel. It still really bothers him.

The second half of April is cloudy and colder than average. It's been raining for the last two days and Judith is unhappy about it as only a baby can be. She misses the outside. In a stroke of genius, Rick's made a safe little seat for her on the windowsill in the kitchen, lined with the fluffiest of her floral-print blankets and secured with a sturdy railing and a safety net. It's a bit of a consolation. The window looks out to the front yard. Judith can watch the tomcat from the neighborhood who's taken to reclining on their porch when he thinks nobody's there to see him. Rick's a sneaky man: besides feeding him, he made a comfortable den for the tomcat, too, filled with catnip-soaked blankets to keep him warm in this despicable weather. He also makes sure to microwave the cat food for a few seconds before he sets it out. He hopes the old boy appreciates it. Judging from the fact that he comes back every day and stays a few hours, he probably does.

When he allows himself to think about Daryl, which is entirely too often to be considered harmless and normal, Rick is worried and kind of disappointed. It's ironic. He didn't use to think twice about the man sleeping on the park bench in January when temperatures dropped to below ten degrees, but cut to now that the guy did something for him and there Rick goes. It's April. Really, besides the humidity, it's not that bad out. It's been above fifty degrees this entire week. As long as Daryl keeps out of the rain, he should be fine.

“I hope he's at least found somewhere to stay,” he says to Judith when she coos at the gentle sound of raindrops hitting the roof above the porch.

He's supposed to be reading to her. Carl brought the entire Harry Potter series from his room a few days ago and proudly announced his sister is old enough to become a Potterhead so she can get “sorted” into a “house”. Whatever _that_ means. Rick hasn't gathered the courage yet to inform his son he doesn't know what the books are about, beyond the general idea that they're about a boy with a wand and a broomstick. He won't have to, apparently, because it's now expected of him that he reads to Jude at least a chapter a day. The first few have been a great success so far: Judith fell asleep listening to him read faster than she ever has to any other fairy tales. Maybe that's because Rick tends to recline on the couch and with Jude splayed comfortably on his chest while he reads this _Sorcerer’s Stone_ to her. He finds that the books kind of work to lull him to sleep as well.

(Also, Carl informs him he’s a _typical_ _Gryffindor_ , which he says with a grimace of something between pity and mockery. Carl himself is a proud _Slytherin_. Rick has no idea whether that’s good or bad, but as a parent to a thirteen year old boy, he’s had a lot of time to get used to being seen as somewhat pathetic by his son. He misses being Carl’s hero, but that’s the way it is. He kind of looks forward to Carl having his own kids one day, and understanding what it’s like. Just not too soon. Twenty years seems acceptable.)

(And to be honest, he thinks _Gryffindor_ sounds way cooler than _Slytherin_ , anyway. Whatever these things are.)

But he's not in the mood for children’s books today, for some reason and, anyway, Judith seems perfectly happy on her windowsill perch. Rick amuses himself with a crossword in the morning paper, instead. He doesn't seem to know a single answer, so he tries to solve the puzzle by fitting as many synonyms for the word “penis” in there as he can come up with. He’s not worried about Judith getting her hands on it and learning new profanities because she’s barely able to talk; reading won’t be a problem for a long time yet.

He's struggling to come up with a four-letter synonym that's neither _cock_ nor _dick_ when he hears a noise from the porch. It sounds like someone's shambling about on the stairs. Frowning, Rick looks out the window above the light wisps of Judith's hair and yeah, somebody is definitely there, much to Judith's interest which she expresses by patting the window pane with her plump little fingers and gurgling. Rick sees how the visitor doesn't come knocking on the door but instead kind of collapses against the railing above the stairs and stays there.

He gets to the front door quickly and opens it to reveal a man sitting curled up on top of the stairs, breathing heavily before breaking into a violent coughing fit. It lasts for a good few minutes before the cough subsides and the man looks up at Rick, narrow blue eyes piercing and bloodshot – and of course it's Daryl, Rick can't believe he hasn't recognized him at first sight.

Maybe it's because the other man looks far worse for the wear than when Rick had seen him last, possibly even worse than before Rick fed him and had him take a shower. There are bruises and swelling on his face, some cuts around his eyes. His lips have a bluish hue. Something that looks vaguely like a clot of dried blood makes his hair stand up in one spot where it's rain-slicked everywhere else. His knuckles are bloodied and look swollen. His clothes are soaked and ripped in places, and there's a big tear in the front of his hoodie; Rick notes also that the man is barefoot, and there's definitely blood on the soles of his feet. He's trembling all over like he’s freezing.

Rick touches the man's shoulder and Daryl flinches, tries to scramble away, his piercing eyes turning fearful. Immediately, Rick raises both hands up in a gesture of surrender to show him _here, I'm harmless, look, I'm not going to touch you unless you let me_. He says,

“Daryl,” and the man frowns as if he recognizes the name, but not the man who’s saying it.

“Daryl,” Rick repeats, trying to school his voice into something reassuring like when he talks to Judith to make her stop crying. Like he used to talk to victims, back when he was on the force. It’s harder than he remembers. “Come on in. You're cold, aren't you? It's warm inside.”

He steps back into the hall and gestures for Daryl to follow. He stays there, waiting, because he's worried if he tries to bring Daryl inside using even the barest hint of force, the man might bolt or else become violent. He's clearly not all there; his bright eyes are unfocused and he really doesn't seem to know who Rick is. But the inside of the house is warm and dry, and there's a pie in the oven which frankly smells heavenly. The temptation proves a bit too much and Daryl moves, tries to rise to his feet, eventually manages to stand somewhat upright using the balustrade for support. As soon as he tries to walk, however, his legs give out and he collapses forward, breaking out into a coughing fit again.

Rick catches him, holds him firmly to his chest, and then when he’s sure Daryl isn’t in any state to fight, he brings the man inside. Daryl can't move, won't move even after he stops coughing. Rick lets him go for just a second, just to close the door, and the man sort of slides down to his knees and stays like that. He is still shaking even in the warmth of the house and Rick's not surprised to feel his fever even through the layers of wet, dirty clothing. Rick's first instinct is to remove the soaked layers, but as soon as he as much as touches Daryl again, the man whimpers and tries to scamper away.

“Daryl, it's okay. It's okay, I won't touch you,” Rick promises, forcing himself to sound calm and collected when in reality, he's anything but. “How about you... lean on me, okay? I won't grab you, I'll keep my hands away. I won't touch you.”

It takes time, but Daryl slowly nods his head and attempts to climb to his feet using Rick as support. True to his word, Rick just stands there and lets the man move at his own pace while he wonders how best to proceed. He needs to get Daryl out of the wet clothes, possibly into the shower to warm him up. He needs those injuries looked at. He needs something for the fever and that terrible cough. Damn, there's so much wrong with Daryl at the moment Rick is seriously considering driving the man to the nearest hospital or even calling an ambulance. He really should. He doubts the man has an insurance, but it's not like Rick is hard pressed for money, he could probably cover Daryl's hospital stay - and yet, he’s pretty sure that’s not what the man wants.

If he can't help here, he'll do that. For now, he concentrates on helping Daryl stand so that he can gently move him to the downstairs bathroom. In spite of all the fight he had in him just now, Daryl seems to follow Rick's lead when he's being gently navigated through the hall and into the bathroom. He winces in obvious discomfort when Rick helps him sit in the shower stall. There's no way he can keep standing once Rick is no longer there to support him, so he has to sit in the shallow basin with his legs sticking out on the floor. It can’t be comfortable, but Rick reckons it beats collapsing to the ground.

“I'll be right back,” Rick tells him softly. “I need to check on Judith, okay? You wait here. Take off the clothes if you can. Just throw them wherever.”

There's no reply, just heavy breathing and Daryl lets his head rest against the cool tiles. Rick feels awful leaving him there alone when the man so obviously needs immediate help, but he has no choice. He runs back to the kitchen. Judith is fine, busy as she is suckling on the leg of her stuffed bunny. Relieved, Rick quickly picks up the phone and calls Tara. She isn’t Judith's favorite babysitter, she actually doesn’t have a favorite babysitter because Rick’s always there with her; but she’s familiar and lives close enough nearby that Rick hopes she might not find it too inconvenient to drop by. He's in luck. Tara says she's free and agrees to be there in ten minutes. She has the house keys, so with this dealt with, Rick returns to the bathroom.

Daryl is still sitting in the same position Rick left him. His eyes are scrunched shut and his lips fall open as he attempts to breathe without hurting. He hasn’t undressed. He probably didn’t even comprehend Rick’s words asking him to do it.

“... it would really be easier if you cooperated,” Rick mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and crouches close to Daryl's side, hovering over him. He tries to do it un-threateningly, but he doesn’t know if he succeeds. How does a man go about hovering someone without looking vaguely threatening?

“I need to take off your clothes. If you're going to fight me, I will have to subdue you. I don't wanna hurt you, Daryl, okay? But I also don't want you to hurt yourself, or to hurt me. You understand?”

The man releases a shaky exhale. It sounds painful and fragile.

“'m fine,” he mumbles and it's so obviously not true that Rick doesn't even know what to say to him.

“Daryl,” he says softly. “You're not fine. Please, let me help. I promise, you're safe here.”

It takes a while, but finally, Daryl nods, a movement so minuscule Rick almost misses it. He allows Rick to kneel closer and doesn't flinch too much at Rick's touch. He still tenses up and downright panics when Rick attempts to remove his hoodie and t-shirt, but he doesn't fight him, just tries to back away. Rick hates doing this to him, hates the thought of causing the man pain and terrorizing him, but this has to be done. He pulls at Daryl’s arms, makes him lift them so that the hoodie and t-shirt can be taken off. When the garments are gone, Rick takes a second to assess the damage and the first thing he notices is the large bruise on the right side of the man's torso. He is pretty sure there's at least one broken rib under all that discoloration, which explains the breathing problems. Then he notices the scars, some of them fresh and barely scabbed other, but most of them old and settled. They're scattered all along Daryl's chest and shoulders, and they seem to go all the way to his back. Cuts, tears and even burn marks, a whole variety of badly healed wounds mar the expanse of Daryl's skin. Some look self-inflicted, but the majority…

Rick forces himself to breathe, to stop staring and move on.

Daryl doesn't even protest anymore when Rick removes his pants and underwear, like all the fight has left him the moment his scars were revealed. He still watches Rick with a heavy-lidded glare, unfocused eyes following his every move like a caged animal, but he doesn't try to scamper away when Rick brings a warm, wet cloth and starts to carefully clean the cuts and abrasions on his skin. He winces and hisses softly when Rick lifts the cloth to the place above his left temple where all that blood is clotting in his hair. Rick does his best to be delicate as he tries to soak and dissolve the clot so that he can get to the wound underneath, to see if it's serious enough to need stitches. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees it's just a small scab. Head injuries bleed a lot, he remembers. He’s had enough of those in the line of duty to be familiar with how much a pain in the neck they are.

Once he's done cleaning the wounds on Daryl's head and torso, he moves to the man's feet. There's a few pieces of glass embedded in the soft skin of Daryl's soles and Rick isn't sure he should be doing this by himself. He's had basic training in first aid, but at least one of these looks like it might be deep enough that the wound will require stitches.

“God, Daryl,” he whispers and shakes his head to clear it. This is not the time nor place to wonder how the man was able to walk at all with his feet looking like that. Empathy can come later, now he needs efficiency.

He sets to work, pulling out the smaller glass shards with pliers and pouring disinfectant on the man's feet as he goes. He leaves the two largest pieces in the left foot alone for now. Daryl's trembling is getting worse. Rick turns on the water to a low pressure setting, waits until it's a bit more than warm and directs the spray at Daryl. It would be better in a bathtub, but the downstairs bathroom doesn't have a tub, just the shower stall. It'll have to do. Daryl whimpers a little when the water hits his skin, but he doesn't make another noise even when Rick washes his hair. Rick tries to be quick about the whole thing, he doesn't want to keep Daryl naked in the bathroom for longer than he absolutely has to, but he also needs to make sure at least most of the blood and grime is gone before he can wrap Daryl in fresh clothes and puts him in a bed. It's for his own good.

Rick's pretty sure he's never going to feel as awkward as he did while he was cleaning the man's junk and all that down there, but it's all done. He's sure they're both going to forget that this ever happened. Forget it forever. With that resolution in mind, Rick shuts down the water and gets up to grab the towels. He uses the smaller ones to dry off Daryl's skin and hair, mindful of the injuries. The bigger one, he wraps around Daryl's shivering form and starts pondering on the logistics of moving the man to a guest bedroom.

Rick almost doesn't have the heart to make Daryl walk when there's still glass buried in his foot, but he has no other solution. Daryl is bigger than him, not taller but broader, more heavily built especially in the upper body. Even at his peak physical form, Rick would have had trouble carrying him and he's definitely not at peak physical form right now.

Damn, he should hit the gym. It’s sad that a homeless man looks so much better muscle-wise than he does. Than he ever did.

He dresses Daryl's glass-free right foot as best as he can with Band-Aids and a roll of gauze, then he finally helps the man up. Daryl leans heavily against him for support. His eyes are closed, his whole face scrunched up in pain as he breathes in shallow inhales and hissing exhales.

“Just a little more,” Rick tells him and hopes he sounds more reassuring than creepy.

He maneuvers the other man through the hallway, careful as to not let him stand on the left foot at all. There's no way they can make it to the guest bedroom all the way upstairs, so Rick discards that plan and instead moves Daryl slowly to the smaller one downstairs. It's more cluttered, there are still some unpacked boxes from the move sitting there, but the bed is comfortable and the sheets are kept fresh. The one advantage of such a big house is that Rick has enough spare bedrooms to have all of his friends for a sleepover if he wants to. Literally. All two of his friends can sleep there he'd still be left with one extra bedroom.

Daryl makes a pathetic sound when he finally collapses on top of the bed, something that's not quite a moan because it's too wheezy. Rick pulls two blankets on top of the man, but the shivering doesn't lessen so he brings two more from the closet and makes sure Daryl is burrowed in their fluffy safety. The man suddenly looks so small, wrapped in this cocoon of blankets, and Rick feels the urge to shield him from the entire world that hurt him so much. This protectiveness is not new, but it’s the first time it’s caused by a relative stranger. Carl was right. Daryl’s already family. Rick looks at him and sees _hurt_ , but even more than that, he sees _mine_.

“I'll get you a doctor,” he says, smiling at his guest in gentle encouragement. Daryl closes his eyes and doesn't react. Maybe he's too busy trying to breathe, or maybe he's too out of it now that the adrenaline levels go lower. Whichever it is, he seems to be on the verge of falling asleep.

Rick leaves him to it. He needs to call Carol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's excited about Carol? *raises hand*  
> The next chapter should be up on Tuesday.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol to the rescue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update again, but I won't be home for the entire week. Next chapter will come as scheduled, on Saturday.

It takes the better part of the afternoon to sort Daryl out. Rick doesn’t know what he would do without Carol's help, of course. Her expertise is priceless. She's a kiddy doctor, but she's the best goddamn kiddy doctor in the world and anyway, she's the only doctor Rick knows who would drive all the way from Atlanta just because Rick needed her to see to a random homeless man. To be honest, she'd probably drive up here even if the patient in question was an injured pigeon. She'd kill Rick for making her, but she'd still do it.

Daryl is no pigeon, so Carol probably isn’t going to kill Rick any time soon. She’s busy handling her patient for now. He’s a handful.

“Don’t you hiss at me, Pookie,” Carol says after the man makes a very agitated noise and tries to escape her reach. It’s understandable. She has a syringe.

“Do you really have to do this? You’re a big boy, stop acting like a baby and give me that arm. Or do you want to die of an easily preventable infection just because you’re too stubborn to let me give you a tetanus shot?”

Daryl grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, but to Rick’s surprise, he offers Carol his arm. She gives him the shot and then hands him a pill and a glass of water-solved flu medication. Either it’s stronger than the usual paracetamol, or flu medicine is Daryl’s weakness, because he’s out in minutes after drinking the warm concoction. Rick doesn’t ask. Daryl needs his rest.

Now that it's all done, they go to the kitchen where Carol immediately starts shuffling about, rearranging everything to her taste without any consideration for Rick's discomfort regarding this high-level anarchy. She always does this while cooking. Rick looks a little helplessly at the way his kitchen falls into disorder. He's not brave enough to protest. He just does his best to get out of Carol’s way because he’s a nuisance to her when she makes food.

She’s cooking chicken noodles soup. Rick doesn’t tell her she’s a mother hen. She knows, anyhow.

“Once the soup is done, take some of it to him. It'll warm him up,” Carol instructs. She takes all the dishcloths off their hooks and folds them neatly, then places them on the cupboard like that's where they belong.

“I won't pretend I know why you've decided to take in a stray when you're already helpless with two children in the house, but I suppose that's not my business, is it, Rick? After all, you're an adult man and you don't need advice from anyone,” she says and her voice is sweet like a swarm of bees. Why are all of the women Rick loves so goddamn scary?

“You're one to talk, what with your army of kids,” he mutters under his breath, hoping Carol can't hear him.

Of course she can.

She turns to smile at him. She looks angelic, like Mary Poppins. Rick actually fears for his life a little. “Now, I'm not passing judgment here, dear,” she informs him, still wearing the smile, or rather wielding it like a weapon of mass destruction. “But you have to understand, this is unusual for you. I would expect you to pick up a pretty woman, maybe a blonde this time, you know, to show how much over Lori you are. But some homeless man? That seems a bit desperate.”

Rick blinks at her. She can't be implying what he thinks she’s implying.

Of course she is.

“My God, Carol!” Rick exclaims and, for lack of anything better to do, he marches to the window. The old tomcat is fast asleep inside the cozy den Rick's made him. Only his tail is visible, stretched out on the tiles of the porch. The tip is moving lazily from time to time.

He turns to Carol. “You're a sick woman and you should get help. You know it's not like that! I told you. Daryl saved Judith's life. I owe him, I couldn't leave him out there in such a state!”

“You could have called an ambulance. He isn't your problem,” Carol points out, but she’s smiling. Not like she gets it, but like she gets _him_.

And, really, what is Rick supposed to tell her? He's aware that his decision to help Daryl here instead of getting him real medical assistance was a bit irrational. He knows why he did it, and he doesn't regret it, but somehow, he's pretty sure Carol won't understand:

He couldn't just turn Daryl over to anyone else, because Daryl came to him at his most vulnerable. Daryl trusted him and, okay, maybe _trust_ is too big a word here, but still. He came to Rick. You don't turn your back on that.

“I just hope you know what you're doing,” Carol says and. She sounds like her mother did, back when they were children and Rick did stupid things, climbed trees that were too tall, jumped into the lake head first without checking the bottom for rocks and shallows, that kind of stuff. If Rick didn't know better and if he wasn't conditioned over the years to fear her like she was some terrifying angel of vengeance, he'd almost suspect his step-sister is worried.

_Of course_ she's worried.

“It's nothing you wouldn't do,” Rick promises her.

Picking up strays is a family trait, he's sure of it. Their parents did it, back on the ranch: four out of their seven horses were rescues, so were their half a dozen dogs, and most of the farmhands were kids from the nearby villages, kids nobody at home cared about enough to feed and clothe. Carol has six kids, only one of which is hers by blood. She also has at least seventeen cats from back when she tried to have a feline foster home and failed to put up any of her fosters for adoption. She's terrible like that, she gets too fond of everyone and wants to adopt everyone. And she's a wonderful mother and her husband doesn't mind, so there's that. Ezekiel must be an exceptional man. Well, he is. Rick is sure of that. He is also sure that Carol's husband is even scarier than she is. He remembers from the wedding. Thing is, with such family background, it stands to reason that Rick also has it in him to open his home to those in need, irrational or otherwise.

“I don't know, Rick, I still think if you wanted to try something new, you could have started with a hobby. A girlfriend would've been okay, too,” Carol says. “But for what it's worth, I think you're doing a good thing here. Nobody deserves what that poor man in your guest bedroom went through.”

She leaves some half hour after Carl comes home from school, but not before mercilessly teasing him about girlfriends and other teenage matters. Rick remembers her mother doing the same to him years ago. He sympathizes with his son, but doesn't try to save him. Carl needs to survive this on his own. It's a sort of rite of passage. Every boy needs to go through some trial before he becomes a man.

Once Carol's gone, the entire kitchen looks like a very particular tornado went through it for the sole purpose of making Rick's life miserably complicated. Rick sort of squints at the plates placed on the shelf in four neat stacks sorted by circumference. Who does that?

“Sooo. When can I meet him?” Carl asks, pretending he's not silently laughing at the way his father is panicking at the new order in the kitchen. He probably thinks Rick deserves all of this and more for leaving him at Carol's mercy.

“Meet who?” Rick asks, distracted. He would really like to find a bowl to pour the goddamn chicken soup he's supposed to take to Daryl. Bowls are supposed to be on the shelf above the sink. They're very prominently not there.

“What do you mean, who. Your new boyfriend!”

Bewildered, Rick whirls on his heel to check if his son's gone crazy. Carl is grinning, which is not conclusive either way. There's a newspaper on the table, right next to Carl's elbow. It's still opened on the crossword which Rick was filling with penises a few hours ago. Rick snatches it to remove it out of the boy's sight, although, if he correctly remembers being thirteen years old, Carl probably knows all these words and more. Rick won't ask. He'd rather spend some more time indulging in this elaborate illusion he has of his son's youthful innocence.

“I think I need to set up some repellent wards around the house. Your Aunt Carol is a bad influence, I don't want her around you anymore,” he tells Carl.

He is met with an unimpressed look in response. “You asked her to come. Repellent wards won't work if it's a summon,” Carl reminds him.

“That's not the point,” Rick says. “The point is, I didn’t pick up a homeless man so that he can become my boyfriend. I don't need a boyfriend. I don't even want a boyfriend, and if I wanted a boyfriend, I certainly wouldn't have picked up a homeless man to be my boyfriend.”

He hopes Carl doesn't notice that he sounds slightly hysterical. It's been a long day.

“That's an awful lot of boyfriends,” Carl observes. He totally notices. He's altogether too smug. Rick no longer likes him. Judith is his favorite child. At least until she can talk. Then he’ll re-evaluate this opinion based on whether or not she starts accusing him of picking up homeless men to become his boyfriends. Boyfriend. One boyfriend.

Damn, what the hell is he even thinking?

“You know, one day when you're old and wrinkled, you're going to think back on this day. You're going to remember how you sassed your daddy, and you're going to regret it so much when he's no longer around to hear your heartfelt apologies and pleas for forgiveness,” Rick announces. He can already imagine the fat tears of regret rolling down imaginary-Carl's weathered cheeks.

He finally finds the bowls in the bottom shelf next to the oven. Muttering something about goddesses of chaos and destruction, he pours chicken soup for Daryl and takes it to the man's room without waiting for Carl to sass him more. He's pretty sure he catches Carl sticking out his tongue at him on his way out. It's okay. He's fine. He won't be crying himself to sleep remembering this blatant display of disrespect. Probably.

At least Carl didn't flip him the bird.

Daryl is fast asleep when Rick comes in. His breathing is labored but steady. He looks much younger when he sleeps, although to be honest, Rick hasn't spent much time wondering about the man's age beyond the initial assessment that they're probably somewhere close in years. There's not a piece of Daryl which is not covered with bandages and ointments. The whole room smells like the herbal poultice Carol used on Daryl's bruises to help give him some relief. Rick can still remember the cool gelatinous substance his step-mother used to use on them as an almighty remedy. It didn't work more often than it did, like, herbs really can’t cure a broken bone, but it was damn good on bruises and swelling.

Rick hates to do this, but he sets the food tray on the bedside table and very carefully puts his hand on Daryl's shoulder to shake him gently awake. In retrospect, he should have expected to be punched square in the jaw. He can't say he didn't deserve it a little. He removes himself from the man's personal space, hands lifted in front of himself, hopefully enough to convey clearly that he means no harm.

Damn, but does the guy pack a mean punch. Hurts like hell.

“I'm sorry for startling you. I just brought you some soup,” he says, gesturing to the tray with the hand he's not using to rub his poor abused face.

He pretends he doesn't notice the way Daryl has scooted as far away from him as he physically can without falling off the bed. In his time as a cop, Rick saw his share of abuse victims. He saw them violently lash out, sometimes for no particular reason at all. Saw adults who tried to take as little space as possible, to make themselves look smaller, insignificant, _invisible_. Suspicious, hunted looks in wide, fearful eyes. Everything is there, all signs clear as day. Rick pretends he doesn't recognize it. He backs off.

“I'll be back later for the bowl and I'll knock on the door. If you don't respond, I won't come in,” he promises because he wants to give this to Daryl, he wants the man to feel this room is his safe space, his personal bubble, his sanctuary which nobody will breach without his permission. It's a place to start, at least.

Daryl doesn't say anything in reply. He watches Rick with the silent intensity of a hunter following very skittish prey, even though he’s acting like the prey in this scenario. He doesn't move from his position until Rick is almost out the door. Only then does he reach for the food. He eats ravenously, hissing softly at the no doubt unpleasant sensation of the hot soup scorching his mouth, and he's almost finished before Rick closes the door. He looks up from the bowl and Rick catches the almost relaxed expression on the man's face which only lasts a second and is replaced by the look of guarded apprehension when Rick holds out his hand.

“Give me the bowl, I'll bring you a refill,” Rick says. He waits, arm outstretched, and is rewarded for his patience when eventually, Daryl moves a little closer on the bed to pass him the empty bowl.

Rick knocks on the door when he's back with more soup. He hears a very soft “come in” and enters, smiling at Daryl. He places the bowl on the bedside table again.

“I won't be disturbing you anymore,” he says. “If you need anything, just shout. I'll sleep on the living room sofa tonight, so I'll be able to hear you. The bathroom is just next door, but I know you're hurt, so if you can't make it, there's a basin under the bed. Don't be ashamed to use it if you have to. I promise, I've done much worse when I was in better physical condition than you and anyway, I clean up pee all the time, what with having a toddler at home and all.”

The homeless man nods. He appears to be blushing. It's a completely normal reaction to have when someone's insinuating you're too weak to go and have a piss, so Rick doesn't really ponder it. His intention isn’t to humiliate Daryl and the man must know that, because he doesn't retort angrily nor does he fall back on hostility as the solution. He just ignores Rick and grabs the food.

Rick leaves him to it. He goes to check on Carl and Judith. They're both in Judith bedroom, playing with a set of wooden letters which are supposed to be educational. Carl seems to be teaching his sister the spelling of various useful words Rick pretends he doesn't see. He'd be more outraged if he thought Jude was anywhere near understanding human languages. As it is, he thinks it's safe.

“Can I meet him tomorrow?” Carl asks, curiosity clear on his face. “I mean, seems I'm the only person in this household who's never seen the guy. And since we're keeping him...”

“I don't know if we're gonna keep him,” Rick says. “It depends on him, not me. Same goes for meeting him. I'll ask him in the morning if he'd like to meet you, okay? But you have to respect his decision if he says he doesn't want that.”

“Geez, dad, chill. I'm not going to like, sneak into his bedroom to stare at him like he's an animal on display, okay? I just want to say thanks to the guy who saved Jude, that's all,” Carl says and pets his sister's head of light brown hair. She screeches like a very happy harpy. It’s adorable in that way it can only be to a proud parent.

Rick smiles. “Yeah, I get it. I'm sure you'll have an opportunity to do that. He's in no condition to leave, anyway. Let's just not crowd him and it's going to turn out great.”

At least he hopes so. There's a lot that can go wrong, after all.

After he makes sure Carl will be alright putting Jude to sleep, he moves his bed sheets to the sofa in the living room. He washes up, brushes his beard which he hasn't shaved since that one time about two weeks ago which he hated, and changes into a pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt he sleeps in when it’s colder or when he has house guests. He settles down on the sofa and turns on the TV. He skips through the channels, but nothing really picks his interest until suddenly, he sees a shot of two guys kissing. He turns it off in surprise, then back on and stares, frowning, because he didn't think such things were shown in daytime TV. It might be dark outside, but it's just past eight and, okay, it's not a porno or anything, just a scene of two guys kissing and being very into it. He's fine with it, he doesn't mind, hell, he's the first to defend other sexualities when Shane's being a dick, but. Seeing it happen, seeing two dudes like that is something else. It's... not exactly disturbing, Rick wouldn't go that far, he doesn't feel repulsed or disgusted, nothing of that sort. It's just... kinda weird. Like, one of the guys is clean-shaven and the other has a well-groomed beard, and Rick thinks it must feel really strange to kiss someone with facial hair. That's what Lori always used to say, and he's sure it must be even stranger for a man than it is for a woman.

He can't imagine himself wanting to kiss a man. Like, how would that even work? Isn't kissing all about feeling good and exploring and all that? Learning the feel and taste of the other person. Nah, he can't imagine doing it with a guy. Nope, not him. Rick Grimes is completely straight, thanks folks.

He turns off the TV and soon after that, he hears a commotion from the hallway. He gets up and goes to see what's going on. He arrives just in time to see Daryl leaning heavily against the wall, a pained expression on his face as he attempts to make his way to the bathroom. Of course he'd do that. Rick rolls his eyes at the man's stubbornness.

“Told you to call me if you needed help,” he says.

Daryl glares at him. “Ain't a pussy,” he growls and tries to take another step which almost ends with him falling on his face. Thankfully, Rick catches him before it can happen. Daryl thrashes against him for a moment before he calms down and stops fighting.

“You're an ass, though,” Rick informs him, huffing, and transports him to the bathroom. He gives him some privacy after Daryl hisses at him to fuck off, deciding the man probably doesn't need assistance taking a leak. Then, after he hears the sound of the water flushing and the tap water being closed off, he collects Daryl and helps him back to the bedroom where he drops the man into bed.

“Seriously, man, you're worse than a kid,” he says in exasperation. “I get it, really, you hate me, you don't want me to help you, but guess what? Tough luck. You've got broken ribs and your feet are like fucking pincushions. You can't do this alone and I'm all you have right now, so you better get used to me being in your face for the time being, okay?”

Daryl watches his outburst without so much as moving a muscle. His eyes are wide and Rick notices for the first time they're a kind of grayish-blue. It's nonsensical, it's got nothing to do with why he's angry - and the fact he's angry is a surprise to himself, too - but it's this random observation of Daryl's eye color that helps him calm down. He turns to the door and says,

“I'm sorry. Guess we're both tired. Shout if you need me, please. I don't wanna find you even more broken on my floor in the morning, alright?”

Before he leaves, he thinks he hears Daryl's soft voice replying, “okay”. But that might just be wishful thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to make an announcement: I finally know where this story is going! I found the point of this fic! I'm so proud of myself. Now, prepare yourselves, because it's going to be a long time before that point is reached...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl gets worse and then gets better. Rick explains things to Carl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, we're back to regular posting schedule now :)

Rick gets up three times that night in order to help Daryl to the bathroom. The third time, after depositing the man back to bed at half past three in the morning, he brings his pillow and blankets to the guest bedroom and settles down on the floor by the door. It's hardly the most comfortable place he's ever slept, but he's also had worse and certainly, the warmth of his bedsheets beats every time he ever had to spend the night on a stake-out in the car. The floor is hard and he's going to hate his life in the morning. Still, it's easier for him to make sure Daryl doesn't trip and hurt himself further if he's nearby.

He's awoken sometime before dawn by a noise of distress. For a moment he's not sure he heard anything, but then it's there again, a soft whimper coming from the bed. Rick frowns and considers the options. He can just leave it. Ignore what he's heard and go back to sleep. Or, he can get up and check on Daryl. The man doesn't seem to be in pain, but it's difficult to judge just from a few noises and besides, Rick has a responsibility towards this man. So, without further ado, he gets up, dragging the sheets with him like a cloak, and approaches the bed, moving as silently as he is able.

Seems he's not good at it because Daryl is no longer asleep when Rick looks down on him. There's enough light coming from the outside to be reflected in the man's eyes as he glares groggily up at Rick.

“Watchin' me sleep now? Wha, yer sum' kinda pervert?” Daryl asks in a hoarse voice which is barely above a whisper.

“Just checking on you,” Rick says, shaking his head. His voice sounds just as hoarse with sleep. “You were talking in your sleep, needed to see that you weren't hurting.”

Daryl doesn't reply. He seems wary of Rick's every movement, following him with his gaze even as Rick shifts. His eyes are glassy in the dark and he seems to be shivering again, even though he's so thoroughly wrapped in the blankets.

“You have a fever again?” Rick asks. He makes an aborted movement to touch the man's forehead, but he catches himself and withdraws his hand even before Daryl flinches. In response, Daryl just looks at him funny.

Rick rolls his eyes. “I'll fix you some meds,” he says and takes off his blanket to add it to the layers surrounding Daryl. The man sighs softly and closes his eyes, relaxing. He's asleep again within minutes, but he awakens for a moment when Rick brings him the fever medicine to drink. He's out like a light again just afterward and he sleeps like a very well-behaved baby until morning.

Rick doesn't. He takes his pillow back to the living room and spends the rest of the night on the couch, watching a documentary marathon about predator animals. It ends just in time for him to make breakfast.

Daryl sleeps well past breakfast time. Rick checks on him once every hour. At one point, he finds the basin from under the bed, now full, and he goes to empty and clean it, kind of proud that Daryl decided to abandon his stubborn pride for once. He doesn’t mention it at all when he very gently shakes the man awake sometime past noon. He makes Daryl swallow another helping of medicine and drink some of the leftover chicken soup without noodles, because he’s not sure Daryl’s in any state to keep anything solid down. He’s barely conscious as it is and Rick has to hold the cup for him while he drinks the thick broth in small sips. His eyes are unfocused, glazed over, and he has trouble breathing again. The fever marks his cheeks with dark patches of red and his skin is glistening with a sheen of sweat. All fight is well and truly gone out of him as he allows Rick to arrange him in the bed and tuck him in like a little child. He’s asleep within moments once he’s wrapped in the blankets again.

Carl has stayed home today; Rick called the school in the morning, claiming urgent family matters. He feels a little guilty about pulling Carl away from his normal activities, from education and all, but he reasons with himself that he can’t be fully there for both Daryl and Judith and neither can be left alone right now. As far as justifications go, this one’s not the worst. Anyway, this is a temporary measure. It’s Friday, no school for Carl on the weekend, and hopefully, Daryl will be better before Monday comes.

Just in case, though, Rick calls Hershel Greene.

“Do you suppose Beth might want to live here in Alexandria with us for a little bit?” He asks after the usual exchange of pleasantries.

Hershel hums thoughtfully. “Actually, it’s not a bad idea,” he says. “Her psychiatrist has been recommending a change of scenery for a while now, and anyway you know how she loves you guys. If she’s up for it, I could have Maggie drive her to your place after the weekend, if that’s alright with you?”

Rick grins. “Oh, that’s perfect. There’ll be a room ready for her to move in for however long she’s willing to stay. Hah, Carl’s going to be on cloud nine for sure.”

“May I ask what brought this about?” Hershel asks. His tone is inquisitive, but pleasant still. He’s not suspicious of Rick’s motives, just curious.

So Rick explains - about the events that led up to Daryl’s involvement in his children and his’ lives, first, and then about the state the homeless man is currently in. Just as he expected, Hershel states his approval for what he considers to be a deed of a good Christian. Rick isn’t much of a believer, but that doesn’t matter because he lives by mostly the same principles as Hershel’s family: helping those in need is something that comes naturally to them. It’s got nothing to do with religion or faith. It’s just how they are.

“I gotta say, I was worried about you out there in Virginia. You tend to get worked up over little things when you’re away from your family,” Hershel says. “But here you go, taking care of your own, all grown up now. I’m proud of you, Rick. And your mommy and daddy, they would be proud of you, too.”

“So you’re not worried the homeless guy I keep in a guest bedroom might wake up one morning and decide to rob me blind?”

Hershel laughs gently. “I think you’re a good enough judge of character that you wouldn’t have taken him in if he was that kind of person. And you said Carol made him soup. Even if I didn’t trust your judgment, I certainly wouldn’t argue with hers.”

So there’s that. With the promise of Beth Greene arriving on Monday and with Hershel’s blessing, Rick feels a lot better about the prospects for the next few weeks: that’s how long he thinks it’s going to take to nurse Daryl back to full health. After that, all bets are off. He hopes he’ll be able to convince the man to stay anyway, even when he’s no longer sick and weak, but somehow, he doubts he’s going to have a lot of success there.

He goes to prepare a light lunch for the kids - mixed fruit salad and peanut butter milkshakes. He blends the peanuts for the butter by himself, because this way the butter is  _so much_  better and anyway, he’s bought a fifty-pound bag of peanuts based on Judith’s whim. His children have him whipped, he can’t help it. When he’s done with the butter, he makes the milkshakes and then carries a tray upstairs to where Carl and Judith are playing in Jude’s room.

“Oh, hey dad,” Carl says. He’s seated on a cushion on the floor, Judith in his lap, an open picture book spread between them. Judith, just as reluctant to learn a language comprehensible to adult humans as her older brother was at her age, gurgles happily when she sees her dad.

Rick smiles and sits down beside them. “Hello,” he says. “Got some food. How’re you doing? Having any fun at all? After I made you stay home and all.”

Carl snorts. “Believe me, dad, there’s not a universe where I’d rather do math than read to Judy. So yeah, we’re having fun. Aren’t we, creature?”

He pets Judith’s head and the little girl smiles brightly. She continues to smile when Carl transfers her into Rick’s lap so that he can eat while Rick feeds her. As always, Jude eats messily but enthusiastically, and both Rick and his son have a laugh watching the tiniest member of their family try to lick away a splattering of yogurt adorning her nose. Of course, her tongue isn’t long enough to reach it, but that doesn’t stop her from making one attempt after another.

“Beth’s going to stay with us for a while,” Rick says after the fruit salad’s gone and both his kids are sipping their milkshakes. “She’ll help me with Judy.”

“Oh!” Carl exclaims and grins ear to ear. “So she’s better now? Last time we seen her, you know…” He trails off.

Rick knows. “Hershel wouldn’t let her come if he thought she wasn’t up to it,” he assures. “Make sure you’re not too insensitive, okay? She doesn’t need us walking on our toes around her, but she’s likely still fragile, so no badgering her about stuff either, yeah?”

“Of course, dad, I’m not stupid,” Carl says, grimacing. “I’m not suddenly gonna ask her about why she tried to kill herself or anything. Just…” He sighs. “It’s just… You know. It’s weird. Like, one day she was all happy and she laughed at me, and the next, she did that, and it made no sense at all. But I know I’m not supposed to ask about it.”

“Sometimes, the events which lead to someone breaking are so immense, it’s obvious at first sight and nobody’s surprised,” Rick says, thinking back to Lori’s death, the fire and his own being shot. Carl nods that he understands the reference, so Rick continues: “Other times, it’s like… layers. Little events which on their own have little meaning, but there are more and more of them settling on top of one another, over a long stretch of time, until suddenly their accumulated weight is too much for any one person to bear. Especially a teenage girl.”

“I don’t get it,” Carl mutters.

Rick thinks a moment. “You know how a grain of sand is so light, you don’t notice it, yes?”

“Yeah…”

“Each little problem is like this grain of sand. A bad grade at school. A friend who betrays your secret. Losing lunch money. A rude remark from some boy. A parent dismissing your opinion,” Rick says. “Seems so trivial, doesn’t it? Little things, problems everybody has. You have them, I have them, little Judith will have them soon.”

“Pfft, I won’t let anybody talk rude stuff about her,” Carl promises.

Rick smiles. “Okay, then everybody but Judy. Good,” he agrees. “Now, the majority of people are able to shake off these grains of sand, some with more ease than others. But there are people who aren’t very good at it. Sometimes, they just don’t think it’s worth the effort to move to throw off a bit of sand. Other times, they don’t even notice it’s there until there’s a lot of it. And it keeps on coming. They haven’t finished dealing with the previous problems, but the new ones are already piling up until one day, there’s nothing to be seen for miles but a desert. And it’s easy to get pulled in by the quicksand.”

“So you think Beth is weak?” Carl asks unhappily. “Because she doesn’t deal with her problems and lets them pile up?”

“No,” Rick replies and ruffles Carl’s hair. “Depression has nothing to do with a person’s strength or weakness. It’s not about that. Would you call me weak?”

“Of course not,” Carl says with conviction.

“And yet you know how I was after your mommy died,” Rick reminds him.

Carl nods thoughtfully. “But you had those big events. Mom died, Judith almost died, you almost died too.”

“Yes, the circumstances were different for me. I was hit by falling rocks, if you may, while Beth was continually buried under layers of sand. Just because the rocks fell suddenly and the sand piled up over time doesn’t mean their weight is any different,” Rick says. “I could argue that as a grown man with police training and experience, I was so well-equipped for such stuff, should’ve dealt with the trauma all the better. I didn’t, so maybe I am the weak one here.”

“It’s not about weakness,” Carl concludes. “It’s about - about how much weight you can carry before it’s too much, right? So, if you feel it’s too much, you’ve got to talk to someone who can help you carry it? Like friends or parents, or therapists. Or Uncle Hershel.”

Rick nods, smiling. “When’d you get so smart on me, huh?”

“Pfff. I’ve always been smart,” Carl informs him, smirking. “I got that from mom.”

Judith throws the straw from her milkshake at him. It hits his face and Carl laughs. He puts both their milkshakes on the floor away from the reach of any errant limbs and starts tickling his sister, which leads to an all-out tickle fight won eventually by Rick due to his unfair advantage of age and experience. He makes them tea later, as a reward-slash-consolation prize thing.

He loves his children so much.

On Saturday morning, Daryl’s fever finally breaks and he asks Rick for help taking a bath. Well, not exactly. He eats his breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, lots of bacon and a generous scoop of fruit salad with a single sad strawberry left over from yesterday. When Rick comes to pick up the plates, Daryl says, “need a bath.” He then proceeds to fight Rick every step of the way to the bathroom like he’s afraid for his virtue or something. Seriously, Rick has subdued criminals which were easier to manhandle than this guy. At least Rick doesn’t have to help him undress, he can imagine what a riot that would be. It’s enough that he has to suffer Daryl’s death glare which he can just feel at the back of his head while the man is showering. He can’t very well leave him all alone in the bathroom, not when Daryl can’t take as many as two steps without help.

“The fuck, man, I already saw you naked, I even washed your junk,” Rick grumbles, shaking his head impatiently. He’s not sure if Daryl heard him over the running water.

Not that having washed Daryl’s private areas means they suddenly have a bond or anything, although there’s something to be said about the trust that’s supposed to flourish between men who see each other naked. It’s why the Romans had public baths, for crying out loud. Maybe Daryl doesn’t trust him because Rick hasn’t been naked in his company yet. It puts Rick in a position of power over the other man. Even more power than being not-homeless and trying to save him does. He’s not about to get naked right now, though. That would just be awkward and wouldn’t perpetuate much trust at all. The only thing it would perpetuate would be the idea of Rick being a sick pervert. No, gaining Daryl’s trust would require a more natural approach to nudity.

Why in the name of all that’s holy his mind is so stuck on being naked with Daryl, Rick isn’t sure. He must be more sleep-deprived than he thought.

Daryl finishes his shower and Rick passes him a towel without looking. It’s ridiculous and makes Rick feel like there’s a chick in the shower cabin, not a full-grown man, but hey. He’s not going trample all over Daryl’s privacy, even if his own ideas about what constitutes a violation do not align with the other man’s. Rick’s had his share of locker room views all throughout high school and later at the gym. He’d seen Shane naked more times than he can count. Apparently, Daryl is not as comfortable about it as other men Rick’s known. Not that he has any reason to be ashamed as far as Rick’s seen.

And there he goes, thinking about Daryl naked, again. _Hello, brain? That’s kinda gay and we’re not gay. Wake up, go back to being straight, thank you kindly._

“Back to bed with you,” Rick says a bit too loudly and turns around to face the man already fully clothed. It’s gratifying to know Rick guessed his size correctly. The black long-sleeve t-shirt hugs Daryl’s broad shoulders and the dark gray sweatpants sit perfectly on his thin hips. The clothes are high-quality cotton jersey, so hopefully, they’re as comfortable as their price tags would suggest.

Daryl doesn’t protest too much when Rick helps him back to the bedroom. He leans against the wall and waits patiently as Rick changes the sweat-soaked bedsheets to fresh linens, then he limps to the bed with minimal assistance. He sprawls on top of the sheets, long wet hair in disarray. It looks auburn in the soft light, not dark brown as Rick had thought. Daryl brushes it with his fingers and frowns when they appear to catch in a tangle.

“I’ll get you a brush,” Rick offers and goes hunting for a comb, brush or something that can be used to the same effect. Predictably, the only hairbrush he finds besides his own beard brush is a big, plastic one in pastel pink. It’s definitely meant for Judith, even though she hasn’t got enough hair to use it on just yet. It’s good to be prepared.

He delivers the brush to Daryl who looks at it for a moment, steals a glance at Rick which says something along the lines of “I’ll kill you in your sleep” but with a drawl much more pronounced than Rick’s thickest southern accent could ever aspire to emulate, and starts working out the tangles in his hair. He hisses when he accidentally tugs on where his head wound was. It’s almost healed, it was just a shallow cut after all, but it must still be sensitive. It’s actually amazing how fast the man’s wounds are healing. His right foot is almost good now, but of course, the left foot, currently covered with plastic foil as to not get wet, is another story, what with the stitches and all. The swelling around his face and ribs is much less pronounced and the bruises are fading to an ugly greenish-yellowish color which somehow signifies improvement despite how unhealthy it looks.

“Need help?” Rick asks when he notices Daryl having some difficulties with the tangles in the back.

Daryl looks at him, assessing but not really that suspicious, and nods, handing him the brush. Rick moves to stand behind him and starts to slowly brush his hair with gentle but fluid motions. He used to do this for Lori, back in the day. She liked to have her hair touched, she liked Rick to work out the knots in them, to massage her scalp – it relaxed her, sometimes it helped assuage her migraines. On Daryl, the effect is not that immense, but also obvious: after an initial moment of tense stillness, the man lets himself relax a little, his arms and back going slack as he leans a little into Rick's touch. He sighs, a hint of pleasure in his voice.

“Good?” Rick asks, smiling.

Daryl glares at him and steps away. “'s enough,” he mutters. He's blushing, the pink flush spreads down his neck to his chest. For an adult man, he's adorable. And ridiculous.

“Okay. Get back to bed. It's still too early for you to be all out and about,” Rick says and pushes Daryl lightly on the shoulder. The man rolls his eyes but goes without a fight. He settles down on the bed and pulls the blankets over himself. He glances at Rick and he seems to be asking, _happy? w_ ith a look that seems almost mocking.

Rick smiles, satisfied. Then, he asks, “Will it be alright if my son brings you lunch later? He's eager to meet you. Been chewing my head off about it for days.”

Daryl hesitates, then nods. “'s long he don't touch me, it's fine. Or stare at me too long. Ain't a circus freak or nuthin'.”

“Yes, of course,” Rick agrees easily. “Don't worry. He just wants to meet the guy who saved his sister. He's really fond of Judith.”

“... can he bring 'er?” Daryl asks softly. “Lil' Ass-kicker?”

He looks so hopeful in that moment, Rick couldn't find it in himself to deny him even if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to. “He'll bring her alright,” he promises.

Daryl smiles at that. Actually smiles. It changes his face completely, makes him look young and innocent, completely unlike the tired, weathered homeless man Rick knows. At that moment, Rick is hopeful for the future, because if Daryl can smile like that just because he can see Rick's kids, maybe it can all work out.

Maybe Daryl can be alright, eventually.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long story short, I was in Berlin to see my favorite music group Avantasia and it was amazing. They were so so good.   
> I also got some story ideas, so expect some new Rickyl fic sometime soon, besides the regular new chapters of this story ;)
> 
> Also, I'm having so much fun writing Rick~


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakthroughs and sunflowers.

Rick doesn’t actually mean to eavesdrop on them when Carl finally goes to meet Daryl, Judith in tow. He’s on the way to the living room where he’s planning to watch some family TV when he notices the door to Daryl’s bedroom is not closed fully. Rick tries to tell himself to resist the temptation, but he’s only a man after all and curiosity gets the better of him sometimes; so he waits plastered to the wall like a creep, listening in as Carl has a conversation - an actual, honest to God conversation which includes full sentences, with the homeless man.

“You know, you look different than I imagined,” Carl tells the man earnestly. “Thought you’d be younger. And, you know.”

“Dunno,” Daryl says and sounds confused. “Why’d ya thought that?”

He hisses softly like he’s in pain and Judith laughs happily. “Creature, stop pulling Daryl’s hair,” Carl says, exasperated when his only answer is the little girl’s giggle.

“Ugh, sorry about her. She likes you so she’s showing off,” he explains.

Daryl grumbles something that might be a complaint, but Rick’s almost sure it’s the opposite because Judith still giggles and starts babbling as she always does when she’s in a particularly good mood.

Carl continues, “Well, the way dad’s been talking about you, I thought you’d look, you know. Like Chris Hemsworth or, or one of the other Hollywood Chrises.”

“Ain’t got no clue what tha'supposed ta mean,” Daryl informs him drily.

Carl’s frown is almost audible when he says, “Everyone knows the Hollywood Chrises. Hemsworth, Evans, Pratt, Pine?”

“Dunno about any of them pricks,” Daryl says. He sounds amused, his tone is a bit teasing, so Rick thinks he can forgive the language for now. It’s all the funnier when Rick remembers how Carl taught him to tell one Chris from the other because apparently it was _very important_ that he knew which of them played Captain Kirk in new Star Trek and which one was Captain America. Like there’s a difference. Half of those action movies Rick saw with Carl had him fall asleep halfway through.

“Watch your tongue, my sister’s at an impressionable age,” Carl reprimands the homeless man who mutters a half-hearted apology.

“Anyway. The Hollywood Chrises are these good-looking guys who play superheroes and, you know, they’re generally good. Like, you look at them and you know they’re all trust-worthy and stuff. They have something going on for them, you know? And I thought you’d be something like that.”

Daryl snorts. “Ya sayin’ I’m an ugly son of a bi… eehive?” He asks, definitely amused now. Rick admires how he evades the swear word, even if the resulting phrase makes little sense. Judith repeats part of the word,  _hive_ , although in her rendition it sounds more like “hay”.

“Well you’re not pretty,” Carl announces with brutal, child-like honesty. “But I guess men don’t have to be pretty, so whatever. And anyway, that’s not what I meant at all,” he adds. “I meant that you’re not someone I’d walk up to in the street asking to hold Judy for me, okay? Because you’re kind of a badass. Like, sort of a scary biker type? Which is even cooler.”

”Had a bike once,” Daryl admits. “Sold it, though. Couldn’t afford no gas ‘n sh… ship,” he mutters.

It’s both amazing and slightly sad that the man opens up so easy when talking to Carl. He wouldn’t volunteer information like that if it was Rick back there in the room with him. Truth be told, he barely even speaks at all when it’s Rick. It’s almost starting to seem personal. What if that’s it? Maybe it’s not that Daryl has trust issues in general. Maybe the man simply doesn’t like Rick, specifically, for whatever reason.

“Bikes are cool,” Carl says wistfully. “Dad wouldn’t let me ride a bike, though, I’m sure he wouldn’t. He’s a control freak, you know? And he’s like, extremely over-protective.”

“Mean he’s a good dad, don’t it? Cares about ya lot. Coulda been worse off, kiddo. Bikes, all kinda cool stuff, it gon’ be there when yer old ‘nuff, ya know? But yer dad ain’t always gon’ be there all protective like. S’ just make sure ya ain’t an ungrateful lil’ sh…eep, yea?”

There’s silence for a moment, then Carl asks, “Will you stay with us?” When Daryl doesn’t say anything, he adds, “I mean, dad’s fine with it, he totally told me already. And I think you’re cool, and creature here already loves you.”

“Ya people know nuthin’ ‘bout me. I may be a goddamn ax murderer or sumthin’. Might wanna kill y’all if ya lookit me all funny. Whatcha gon’ do then?”

“Dad was a cop, you know,” Carl replies casually. “He’s got this, what’s it called, this intuition. He can tell the good guys from the bad guys. He says you’re one of the good guys, and you know what? I’m going to trust him on that.”

“Yea, fine,” Daryl grumbles, “lessee whatcha guys say when y’all get slaughtered in yer sleep.”

Judith chooses that moment to shriek happily, most likely having found something she deems worth eating, like a bug or someone’s toe. Rick chuckles under his breath and walks away, leaving the trio to their own devices. He’s heard enough of the conversation not to be worried too much about where it may go. He likes how Daryl doesn’t really swear even though it’s part of his normal speech patterns. He likes that the man seems to feel comfortable enough with Carl to talk in mostly full sentences instead of the monosyllables and grunts he prefers to employ when Rick’s in the room. He likes that Judith is apparently welcome to tug and slobber all over the man with no fear of retribution or even rebuttal. He likes how Daryl is just a natural when it comes to interaction with children.

Since Carl can pretty much take care of himself and his sister for a while, and he can also be trusted not to bother Daryl for too long if the man shows any signs of being tired of his presence, Rick goes to the garden. The weather is pretty nice today for the first time in two weeks. It’s still cloudy, but it doesn’t rain anymore, not since yesterday morning, and there’s enough sunlight to make the air pleasantly warm. Rick takes the opportunity to weed the tomato patch and afterwards, he decides to sow a thick row of sunflowers in the soft earth along the fence. It’s a little late to be planting sunflowers, he should’ve done it at the beginning of April, not the end, but what’s done is done. Hopefully, they’ll rise in time to catch the sunniest days of May, anyway. It would be nice. Sunflowers make a house seem so much more welcoming. Michonne and Beth will be there soon; for their sakes, Rick wants the place to be as welcoming as possible.

The idea of the house becoming full of people is more than appealing. When Rick was a boy, the farm was always crowded. He didn’t have siblings other than Carol, but that didn’t matter because they grew up with the other kids from the neighborhood, raised together like brothers and sisters. Then there were family friends and various uncles and aunts, and sometimes complete strangers would find shelter at the grounds as well: former convicts, recovering addicts, all sorts of people who lost their way were there to find it again. Then it was the same at Hershel’s, with his children, friends and neighbors always hanging about the old house at the Greene farm like a real community. In comparison, living only with Lori and Carl was somewhat lonely for a while there, back in Atlanta. Alexandria is a new opportunity in more than one way. The house with its six bedrooms has the potential to become a home to Rick’s extended family as well, the kind of home he used to love returning to as a kid.

He finishes with the sunflowers and sits back on the damp grass, ignoring how the humidity seeps into the denim of his jeans. It’s not much of a problem if the pants are ruined, they’ll just become designated as the new work pair for gardening. It’s fine. It’s still somewhat strange how much money is not an issue, but Rick will take advantage of that. He leans back against the trunk of the lone apple tree, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the shade and the flowers in bloom, the buzzing of insects and the songs of birds; and suddenly he notices, he’s not alone.

The old neighborhood tomcat is sprawled lazily on the bag with leftover sunflower seeds. He’s the closest Rick’s ever seen him, almost within arm’s reach but not quite there yet. He’s purring softly, watching Rick through half-closed golden eyes. From this close, Rick can finally really observe him. He notices how there’s a chunk missing of the tomcat’s left ear, but not like it was clipped after TNR, rather like he lost it in a fight. He sees that the cat’s front right paw is missing a finger. There are also patches of fur that are shorter than they should be, especially near his spine, and Rick is pretty sure he’d find scars, possibly burn marks on the skin there. The cat’s eyes and ears seem relatively clean, but there’s definitely some fleas on him. This poor old boy’s been through a lot.

And yet, he’s purring contentedly in Rick’s company.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing,” Rick tells the tomcat, voice a gentle rumble barely above a whisper, and he’s smiling. He doesn’t move at all from where he’s seated. He just observes as the cat’s fluffy tail twitches from side to side at the sound of the voice talking to him. The tomcat blinks a few times, staring at Rick, and Rick slowly blinks back in this feline version of  _hello_. Incredibly, the tomcat’s reaction is to stand up, tail high in the air, and come closer still. He purrs and bumps his head against Rick’s knee, then puts his front paws on Rick’s thigh and stares at him, eyes intent as he purrs.

Very slowly, making sure the movement doesn’t startle the cat, Rick lifts his arm and presents his hand to him for inspection. The tomcat sniffs at it curiously, hesitates for just a moment – and bumps his head against the palm of Rick’s hand, the gesture obvious for what it is: a demand for pets. So Rick, amazed and overwhelmed with emotion, gently strokes the cat’s big head between the ears, then on the cheeks behind the whiskers. The purring becomes even louder, happier, the cat’s tail still high up, just the tip of it twitching in excitement as the little beast all but vibrates against Rick’s leg.

“You like this, old boy?” Rick asks softly, chuckling when the cat climbs in his lap and starts kneading his thigh, the most universal sign of feline contentment. It’s almost unbelievable that this is the same cat who, for a good few weeks now, kept hiding from sight whenever a human was too close. It might be just a fluke, but right now, the cat doesn’t seem feral at all. Rick is almost certain the tomcat used to be someone’s, maybe an outdoor type, but definitely used to being pampered like this. He has a strong preference of where he wants to be petted, and he reclines on top of Rick like he’s never been afraid of humans at all.

“Think it’s time to unlock the cat door,” Rick tells the cat and is surprised by an answer of a soft, rather hoarse  _meow_. He chuckles. “Are you a talkative kitty? Tell me more, sweetheart. Tell me all about yourself.”

The tomcat meows again and it sounds a bit like a mix between a purr and a whine. It’s the cutest little noise Rick’s ever heard a cat make, partially because it’s so unexpected. Rick talks to him and listens to the cat talk right back. The animal is happy enough to let Rick continue to pet him for a good twenty minutes before he’s bored and takes off. He looks back at Rick, measures him with his golden gaze, blinks twice as if to say  _goodbye_  and leaves through the porch, heading out to the other side of the street.

Rick returns to the house, unlocks the cat door he hopes will get some use now, and goes to change. He uses the opportunity to take a shower because his ass is cold after sitting on the wet grass for so long. Once he’s done, he checks on Daryl - alone, asleep in his bedroom - and his kids, both in Judith’s room again. Carl likes to spend time in Judith’s room for some reason. It’s a little strange that he prefers it to the typical teenage angst solitude, but Rick won’t complain. Judith adores her older brother and Carl adores his little sister, so it works out perfectly. Rick tells the kids about the adventure he just had with the tomcat and they’re both pretty excited, although Judith is probably more excited at seeing her daddy than anything he has to say.

“What are we gonna call him?” Carl asks, grinning, eyes bright.

“Da!” Judith exclaims, throwing a letter block at Rick. It reads  _D_. She must be fond of that letter, she plays with it a lot.  _Da_  sounds almost like  _dad_ , too, so Rick is very proud of his little girl.

“We’ll discuss it over dinner, okay? Maybe Daryl can get a vote,” Rick decides.

“He’s cool, by the way,” Carl announces. “He didn’t mind when Judith started climbing him or when she bit his ear. He can stay.”

Rick shakes his head, laughing. “Yeah, well, he won’t want to if you continue to use him as an amusement park for Jude.”

“He loved it, I could tell,” Carl says, shrugging. “He looked at her all soft like. Not in a creepy way, though, just like you look at her when she does something cute. Like when she calls you  _Da_ , you know?”

Rick knows. He remembers the smile on Daryl’s face when the man was told he could see Judith again. “Well, let’s not test his patience,” he says, but he’s got a good feeling that there are a very precious few things either Carl or Judith could do to make Daryl mad.

Shane drops by sometime before dinner, which means it’s lucky Rick didn’t cook tonight because he’s aware of his best friend’s appetite. Carl has nothing against take out and the nearby pizza place Tara recommended has an actual toddler menu, much to Rick’s surprise. He orders it with a certain morbid sort of curiosity, wondering whether anything included in it is actually suitable for human consumption, not to mention toddler-appropriate. They wait for the pizza in the living room, Carl playing with Judith and pretending he’s not listening in to Rick and Shane’s chat.

“Tried to check it out for you, man,” Shane is saying, shaking his head. “But no cameras anywhere got him before he was already like that, so. Nobody came through as witness either. Can’t really tell you what happened.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” Rick sighs. “Thanks for checking, man.”

“Cheers. I’ll keep an ear out, just in case. Don’t much like it when a guy gets beaten to a pulp on my turf, you know? Even when it’s just a hobo,” Shane shrugs. When both Carl and Rick glare at him, he frowns and corrects himself, “I mean, when it’s a homeless dude. Jesus, guys, get off my case, didn’t mean it as a slur or anything!”

“Sorry, my mate, Daryl is Carl’s new favorite person,” Rick jokes.

“Said he had a bike,” Carl announces. “A motorcycle,” he clarifies. “Dad, can I have a motorcycle one day?”

“When your salary can support it, sure,” Rick replies calmly. Carl rolls his eyes. “Okay, we’ll talk about it when you’re tall enough to reach the ground from a motorcycle’s seat. Better?”

Shane laughs. “That’s cruel,” he says and claps Rick on the shoulder. “You’ve got the license, though, haven’t you? I remember you had that vintage beast, what was it, an original Harley Davidson, wasn’t it? A seventy-five model, I think. Lori made you sell it off after Carl was born?”

“Yeah,” Rick admits wistfully. “Nineteen seventy-four Super Glide FXE, the first one with one-piece tank. Beautiful model, paid an arm and a leg for it off a collector. And, uh well, I didn’t sell it. I’ve still got it. It’s been at Aaron’s place all this time, taken care of and all, kept it top shape. Haven't ridden it in years, though.”

“You’re shitting me,” Shane exclaims and once again finds himself a recipient of a double glare. He immediately throws his hands up, resigned, and adds, “Obviously I didn’t mean to swear. Sorry, little lady,” he addresses Judith who giggles and puts her whole hand into her mouth, which probably means she’s hungry. Good thing the pizza delivery chooses that moment to arrive and Rick picks it up. He leaves the food in the living room with Shane and the kids, and goes to see if Daryl’s awake.

He finds the man sitting on the bed, squinting at the familiar-looking cross-word in a newspaper.

“Dunno the purpose of them puzzles, but am mighty sure that ain’t it,” Daryl comments drily, looking up at Rick. There’s a playful glint in his eyes. Obviously, the earlier interaction with Rick’s kids served as some kind of a breakthrough in the man’s relationship with Rick as well.

“Could argue my way’s more fun,” Rick points out.

Daryl hums thoughtfully. “Nah,” he decides. “Yer vocabulary ain’t colorful enuff. Yer all proper like.”

“Think so? Thought I did quite well, actually,” Rick argues lightly.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Betcha yer kid knows more words fer dick ‘n ya,” he says.

Rick agrees, but doesn’t say so out loud. He still wants to pretend Carl’s an innocent child. “By the way, seems like both my kids love you to death now. How’d you do it?”

The homeless man shrugs, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He puts the newspaper away on the bedside table and looks at the wall as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“We’ve got pizza for dinner,” Rick says, changing the topic. “Would you like to eat with us? It’s me, the kids and my best friend, he’s a bag of dicks but he’ll be on his best behavior.”

“Dun wanna intrude,” Daryl mutters. Rick is a little stupefied at how different the man seems now as compared to just a minute ago. Like he’s suddenly realized Rick isn’t the same kind of safety guarantee as his children after all, and he’s trying to get back into what he perceives as a secure distance. Rick doesn’t know how to convince him it’s unnecessary, but the best thing he gathers he can do is act like he hasn’t noticed the man’s odd behavior at all.

“You wouldn’t intrude,” he promises. “But if you don’t want to go out there, it’s also fine, I’ll bring you some food here. Or better yet, I’ll send it with Carl. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Daryl frowns, casts a glance at him. Confused, again. “Why’re ya so nice?” He asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rick asks back, smiling. “Now. Tell me what you want.”

Daryl looks away once again, blushing a little. He licks his lips and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, ‘m gunna eat widdya. If yer still offerin’.”

Rick resists the urge to pump his fist in the air in victory, but only barely because this feels like a win. He helps Daryl up and lends his body as a crutch, leading the man to the leaving room. Shane and Carl are both on the floor with Judith, laughing together about something when Rick deposits Daryl in the yellow armchair, so they don’t really acknowledge the man at first - until Shane looks up at the homeless man and the laughter freezes into a grimace that’s hard to describe as anything but confused and angry both at once.

“ _Dixon_ ,” he hisses and it sounds like an insult, “what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, here's Harley Davidson 1974 Super Glide FXE:   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0XV9MuwHe0  
> Isn't it a beauty?
> 
> Also, thought I'd clarify because I keep mentioning TNR in reference to cats. TNR means Trap-Neuter-Return, it's what groups of volunteers do. They basically trap feral cats, have them neutered with associated vets, and return them to their habitats. There's many groups doing this in the US, I follow some on Instagram, and it's a great cause because it improves the quality of life of the cats in feral colonies, plus it helps reduce the number of feral cats in the long run. If you'd like to help, please consider reaching out to your local group :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One crisis after another. Never let it be said that Rick's domestic life is boring.

The silence which falls upon everyone is only broken by Judith’s babbling. The toddler isn’t the best at reading the room.

When Rick looks at Daryl, the man doesn’t really seem ready to flee. Instead, he is glaring at Shane, posture defensive and eyes narrowed into hateful slits.

“Walsh,” he says, his voice cold like Rick hasn’t heard before. He reminds Rick of a coiled snake, tense and attentive, waiting for the opportunity to strike and deal the most damage.

Shane shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it and a short bark of laughter escapes him. It’s a dangerous kind of sound. Somewhat mean. Somewhat unstable. Rick doesn’t remember hearing Shane like this, either, even though he’s known the guy for more than thirty years.

“So, Dixon, didn’t really expect to see you here of all places,” Shane says. “Got evicted, finally, that it? Can’t even be bothered to pay fees in the trailer park?”

“Fu… fart off,” Daryl snaps, casting a quick glance at Judith who’s already happily crawling towards him, the little girl completely unperturbed by the tension. The man relaxes instantly, like he thinks the toddler is a shield against the negativity or something. Rick is relieved and somewhat proud. Of Judith for being her precious little princess self, and especially of Daryl – for beating the fight or flight instinct.

“So you’ve met already,” he says, trying to aim at a light tone to somehow salvage the situation. It doesn’t work all that well. The two men continue to glare at each other like bitter enemies.

“You know, Rick, I should’ve known, when you said his name was Daryl. Daryl, of course! A fucking redneck name. Should’ve known there really aren’t all that many goddamn rednecks so far up in Virginia, shouldn’t I? And if I’d known there was a motherfucking Dixon bumming it up in my area, would’ve kicked his ass ages ago.”

“No swear words!” Carl snaps. He’s as confused about the situation as Rick feels, if not more, but he’s still being the responsible older brother. Rick is very proud of him, too.

“Don’t you get it? This dude’s worse influence than swear words,” Shane protests.

“’t least ain’t gon' cussin' ‘round the baby,” Daryl mutters darkly. Judith grabs his pant leg in her chubby fist and pulls on it like she's trying to prop herself to stand. She doesn't succeed and she seems incredibly confused about it. Daryl gives her his hand to play with as consolation. She takes it and chews on Daryl's thumb.

Rick shakes his head, frowning. “You know what? I don’t care what this is about,” he announces. “Shane, you go outside, clear your head. Grab a beer from the fridge on the way back,” he commands sharply. He’s not surprised when Shane scowls at him but obeys anyway.

“Daryl, thank you for restraining yourself around Judith,” Rick adds, addressing the homeless man in turn. His tone is much gentler when he talks to Daryl. Placating. “Now, I don’t know what your apparently being a Dixon even has to do with anything and I frankly don’t wanna know. You’re my guest and you’re welcome here, regardless of your personal history with Shane. Now, would you like to stay with us in the living room to eat, or do you want some privacy?”

“… can stay,” Daryl says softly, staring at the ground. He looks like he’s not sure what’s going on, like the whole situation isn’t going the way he expected it to.

Rick realizes with a small pang of hurt in his heart that the man probably expected to be thrown out.

“So, Daryl, want pizza?” Carl asks. “We’ve got pepperoni, then there’s grilled chicken, um, the three kinds of cheese one, and I think there's pineapple pizza too. Don't know why though. Can’t remember anyone ordering it. Don't know who would, nobody likes it. It's nasty.”

Rick lets Carl handle Daryl for now. He has Shane to take care of. He can hear the front door slamming closed and then the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, so he follows the noise to the kitchen. Shane is standing there, leaning against the fridge, a bottle of beer in hand. He's frowning down at it like he's trying to find answers in the picture on the cap.

“The hell was that about, man?” Rick asks him.

Shane groans and shakes his head. “No, you're right, fuck,” he says. “I overreacted. That guy, your hobo boyfriend or whatever, I've met him before, okay? That rundown trailer park some three miles from here. Fucking shithole, man. Got called to the neighborhood quite often. Even arrested the dude's brother once or twice. Small stuff, I think possession and petty theft? Guy was a junkie.”

“Daryl?”

“Nope, never had to take that one in,” Shane admits. “Always on his best behavior, even if he gave me a mean look or five all the time. Shifty bastard, but clean. Never saw him drunk or baked either.”

“Then why the hell would you attack him like that?” Rick demands, incredulous.

Shane sighs. “Like I said. Overreacted. Dixons, they're not good people, okay? Your guy's brother Merle, the junkie, heard he's been put away for something more serious this time. And before that, their old man, that one was a real piece of shit. Let me tell you, the day the Dixons came up to these parts from some backwater trash county in Georgia was not a lucky day for the local people, not at all.”

“That's bullshit,” Rick decides. “You're judging Daryl based on what you know of his relatives. Come on. You're telling me he never did anything suspicious and in the same breath, you say he's a piece of shit? Gimme a break, Shane.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. He shrugs. “Yeah, you're right. I do before I think sometimes, alright? I screwed up and I’m sorry, man. Was a nice afternoon too. Think we can fix this?”

“Well, he didn't run,” Rick offers and sighs in exasperation. He hands Shane a bottle opener, one of the fancy types he got from a souvenir shop back in Atlanta before moving up here. Indifferent, he watches his best friend almost break his finger with it before Shane holds it the correct way to open the beer. “Mostly because he can't, stitches, broken ribs and all, but you know. It still counts. So will you apologize?”

Taking a generous swig of the beer and then setting the bottle on the counter, Shane shrugs. “Yup, okay. I can do that.”

When they re-enter the living room, Daryl has Judith in his lap and is feeding her a white cheese puff. He is listening attentively to a story Carl is telling him about something from the Harry Potter universe; Rick can only guess that’s what it is about because Carl mentions Slytherin approximately six times in one sentence and makes allusions to it being superior over the other houses, whatever their names are.

“Dad was supposed to read to Jude so she can be Sorted, too, but I think he's been neglecting that,” Carl says, leaning into Daryl’s space like they’re two conspirators, and Rick can't help but chuckle.

“I'm sorry, I promise to become a better educator in the future.”

“Well, can't really expect a Gryffindor to be too reliable,” Carl quips, casting his father a mildly disapproving glance. “Daryl would be in Slytherin for sure, with all the cool people. And with Shane,” the boy adds the latter as an afterthought, a bit doubtful.

“On that note,” Shane interjects, “I'd like to apologize. To everyone here. Especially you, Dixon. Sorry for being a di... a not-so-nice person.”

“'s fine,” Daryl mutters, but he doesn’t look up at the man. He wipes Judith's greasy face with a handkerchief. The corner of his lips twitches nearly imperceptibly when the little girl bites him playfully. “Got used to it. Cops ain't never been nice.”

Judith chooses that moment to start babbling, wiggling all of her limbs very animatedly. Carl gets to his feet and grabs his sister right before the smell reaches everyone's noses. “I'll go get her changed,” he says and takes Judith upstairs, likely relieved to leave the adults to their problems. Rick wishes he could go with, but he knows he needs to act the buffer between the two other men in the room. Which is funny because if the situation comes to blows, he's the most likely to get knocked out. Shane's always been physically stronger than him if less agile, and Daryl... well, those broad, muscular shoulders have to mean something even with their owner in a weakened state.

Rick has a weird thought of being the filling of a very muscly man sandwich. _No homo_. He blinks at his own brain's strange ideas and shakes his head. He needs a drink or five after this is over.

“Gon' go for a smoke,” Daryl announces and attempts to get up from the armchair on his own. It's a futile endeavor, but before Rick can move towards him, Shane is already offering an outstretched arm to the man. Narrowing his eyes, Daryl accepts the help and stands shakily while holding onto Shane's wrist.

“You sit down and eat,” Shane says, sending a shy grin Rick's way. He doesn't seem to be straining to seem friendly. It actually looks like he's being genuine. “I promise I'll bring him back here safely in a few minutes or, you know, whatever.”

“Yeah, fine,” Rick agrees, but he looks to Daryl for confirmation the man is comfortable with Shane leading him outside. Daryl nods slightly and lets Shane manhandle him towards the exit.

Left alone, Rick sits on the couch and tries to concentrate on making a mental list of things he needs to do within the next few days. Besides clearing the spare upstairs guest bedroom for Beth and preparing for when Michonne arrives, there's taking the old tomcat to the vet to see about his health and getting him spayed if it's required, and giving him a good flea treatment. Then the garden needs some more work, but nothing urgent. Judith's bi-monthly check-up is coming up sometime soon. Plus, Rick thinks he might drop by Aaron's garage to pick up his old bike for a little ride. He didn't use to miss it all too much, but Shane mentioning it made him somewhat nostalgic. He wasn't really biker material even back in the day when he had a truly badass leather jacket and a pair of cool sunglasses he never figured out what to do with when he put on the helmet. It was easy to give up riding, in the end; Lori wouldn't have tried to make him drop a real passion no matter how uncomfortable or worried it might've made her feel. But Rick had no problem with it. It was just the bike itself he didn't want to get rid of. Sentiment, he reckons now.

He knows he's attempting to lose himself in thought to stop worrying about letting Shane be alone with Daryl. It's not that he doesn't trust his best friend, of course he does, and Shane promised he'll bring Daryl back after the smoke break. Shane's a jerk, yeah, but he's got a heart of gold hidden under all that rashness and bravado. He's the type to save kittens stuck in trees and help elderly ladies cross streets. He doesn't hold grudges and he at least tries to get over some of the judgmental shit he'd been taught throughout his childhood in good old Georgia. So Daryl's not in any danger from the guy, and anyway, Shane _promised_ to do better. Even if he personally hates Daryl's guts for whatever far-fetched reason, he wouldn't go breaking a promise to Rick.

The pizza is somewhat cold but still good. Rick has a slice of the grilled chicken one, then two of the pepperoni. He eyes the pineapple one suspiciously and thinks he definitely didn't order that. Maybe it's a bonus? Maybe the pizza place is trying to get rid of it like a hot potato, he thinks, because there's just no way it's a popular choice. He can't think of a single person he knows who actually enjoys pineapple on a pizza. Even Daryl didn't touch it and Rick's pretty convinced after being homeless for who knows how long, Daryl would eat anything as long as it didn't escape too fast.

He chuckles to himself at the image his mind supplies of Daryl chasing a deer in the woods, a makeshift spear in hand like some sort primeval hunter. Well, maybe not a spear. A bow would work better. Those arms of his would look real good if he strained them to draw the bow, all raw muscle buckling under smooth hot skin...

Now what the _fuck_ is that thought about.

Frowning, Rick picks up a slice of the pineapple pizza and studies it intently, very much _not_ examining his sudden preoccupation with another man's broad shoulders and strong arms. He's pretty sure it's nothing but healthy admiration and possibly some sort of deep-rooted envy, that's all. It's completely natural to wonder about Daryl's physical form which is totally impressive since the man's not exactly in a position to work out in a gym or anything. Actually, Rick should feel ashamed; he's had every opportunity and all the time in the world to work on his own musculature, yet here he is, growing soft around the edges all because he's grown lazy and complacent since leaving the force. He really has to do something about that.

He adds _visiting Abe's gym_ to his mental list of tasks he's pretty sure he's going to forget about until next time and takes a bite of the pizza. He chews, expecting something utterly disgusting, and is surprised when it doesn't taste half bad. Maybe because he hasn't reached the piece of pineapple planted in the center of the slice yet. The cheese and sauce are sweet-ish from the juice, but it mixes well with the mushrooms anyway. Then Rick goes for it and bites into the part of the slice with ham and pineapple on it, and... it's actually fucking good.

Rick wonders if he's ever had pineapple pizza before. He reckons he had to if he thought it so vile, but actually, he can't remember. There's a distinct possibility it was sometime in his childhood, but to be honest, it's more probable Rick's adapted the general mindset of literally everyone ever that seemed to point at pineapple pizza as the most repulsive thing ever next to warm beer and cold fries. Which means he was missing out for no reason.

He has five slices out of the six the pizza is cut into before Shane returns, Daryl in tow. The two men seem calm, so it's safe to assume nothing weird or dangerous happened on the porch while Daryl was smoking. Rick smiles at them proudly.

“What you grinning about?” Shane asks, plopping down on the couch next to him while Daryl takes back the seat in the armchair. Rick wistfully wishes they switched places, but he doesn't say anything about it. He just shrugs, still smiling so hard he wonders how his face hasn't split in two, and reaches for the last slice of the pineapple pizza.

“Wow, man, you sure were hungry,” Shane comments incredulously. “Why didn't you just finish the pepperoni? There's one more box...”

“Was curious,” Rick informs simply. “It's really good, man. Didn't know what I was missing all those years, seems like.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, chuckling, “you believe that. I'd say you're a weirdo but, we all know that already, don't we?” He nudges Rick's side and winks to Daryl who just looks at him blankly.

“May be,” Rick agrees. He finishes the slice and licks his fingers, sighing in contentment. Damn, he's full. And happy. Fuck yeah he's happy. It's like this is the best day he's ever had: Daryl's feeling better and acting nicer for it, Carl and Judith love the hell out of him already, Shane's not too bad at all at being civil. Even the cat outside stopped playing hard to get. And there's really good pizza. What else can a man want?

“That must've been one good pizza,” Shane observes, “'cuz you're still grinning like a madman. You sure you didn't raid the fridge for beer when we were outside?”

Rick laughs and lets his head drop on his best friend's shoulder. It's not comfortable at all, not like he imagines Daryl's shoulder would be, but it'll do.

“What, you're going into food coma or something?” Shane asks, poking him. Rick doesn't respond. Not that he doesn't want to; just, the question doesn't really register. He knows he's being talked to, he understands the words, but they don't make too much sense. Nothing does. It's kind of funny. Shane's arm twitches where Rick is leaning on it like there's an entire legion of ants under his skin and Rick can't help but giggle.

Daryl's voice reaches him, asking: “... everythin' alright?” And Rick opens his eyes which he didn't even notice slid closed. He looks around himself, noticing that for some strange reason he's still sprawled against Shane's side and not Daryl's, and Daryl is still in the armchair _so far away_. This is simply unacceptable. Rick scrambles to his feet and wonders briefly why the world is spinning so fast, he doesn't remember it ever doing that before, not without the involvement of copious amounts of alcohol. It doesn't matter, though, it's what it is, if the world decided it has to start spinning like a carousel now, it's none of Rick's business. What's his business is that Daryl is there in the armchair and there's definitely enough space for two in the armchair, especially if Daryl isn't opposed to some manly cuddling that is absolutely no homo and completely platonic, because Rick doesn't want to do anything non-platonic with the man at all. Nothing. Absolutely.

He recognizes the sensation of his knees buckling and he's aware that he's falling before he hits the ground. It's hilarious, it's ridiculous and Rick hears people calling his name, calling him, but he doesn't know how to answer and it's so fucking funny, so he laughs. It hurts – something hurts, somewhere – and somebody holds him, says things at him he doesn't really hear at all, and Rick hopes it's Daryl, and he thinks _serves me right for eating the fucking pineapple pizza_ , and then he's out like a torch with a dead battery.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, Shane isn't a total asshole! :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick loses some dignity and gains the upper hand, all without moving from the bed.

Waking up to the real world is a bitch, but then again, it's the better alternative to the weird dreams Rick thinks he's had to have been facing for the last sixty years. That's how long it feels like he slept. Sixty years or more. And he spent at least half of them puking his guts out. The rest were a confusing mix of images in slow-motion, including hunters with broomsticks, Shane in a hula dancer outfit and a pineapple in his arms, and zombies. All at once in a sequence filled with meaty plotlines and cliff-hangers. It all probably made more sense while he was dreaming it, though he can't tell for certain. His mind is very fuzzy on the details.

It's dark in the room he opens his eyes to and Rick thinks, _damn, have I died?_ But that doesn't seem right; he's sore all over, there's a pounding ache in his head and he wonders if something crawled inside his throat and died there, leaving this foul taste on top of the unbearable dryness. It's less like he imagines dying and much more like he remembers awakening from a coma after being shot. Only he didn't remember dreaming anything, weird or otherwise, that time. And the hospital room was too bright when he woke up there to a doctor's sympathetic face.

There's no face staring down at him now, and this isn't a hospital. In fact, Rick is surprised to find he's in his own bedroom, in his own bed, dressed in his own pajamas and wrapped within his own blankets. He blinks, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, and he attempts to sit up. The soreness of his entire body flares up and he groans harshly.

“Don't you move, silly cakes,” Michonne says from the rocking chair next to the bed and Rick feels his eyes widen to a comical degree. He tries to speak, ask how long he's been out, what the _hell_ even happened because he can't remember anything beyond eating some pizza while waiting for Shane and Daryl to come back – but no sound comes out. It's like his throat's been polished with fine grit sandpaper. Even breathing is painful.

“Here, have some water,” Michonne says and offers him a glass. She helps him sit up and holds the glass so he can take a few sips he almost chokes on. Groaning again, Rick falls back against the pillows.

“No kidding there, pretty boy, but what the hell? I leave you alone for what, a few months at most? And of course, you have to get yourself poisoned right when I'm about to come back so I’m stuck changing your diapers,” Michonne complains. Her tone is teasing, though, almost fond.

“'ow long?” Rick manages to croak out. He coughs a few times. It doesn't make him feel better. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the diaper comment, though now that he’s heard it, he realizes yes, it’s true, _oh my God I’m wearing a diaper_. It’s too humiliating.

“Three days. I've been here since yesterday. Your friends told me all about what happened, though. Shane's the cop, right? He took you to the clinic as soon as you swooned. They gave you something made you purge everything you ate. Kept you overnight and let Shane bring you back home. He was very insistent. Wouldn't even allow them to keep you for observation, he would've kidnapped you if they didn't agree. It's a good thing you have him listed as kin for the clinic and they couldn't argue his decision. Oh, by the way, Carol's been coming every day to check up on you,” Michonne explains.

“Your new friend - Daryl, is that right? - he's been taking care of Carl and Judith. Beth too, she came on Monday. Yesterday we got a call from the clinic, some lab results. They did tests on your blood work and the stuff you purged. You got yourself poisoned with an almost lethal dose of psilocybin. Must've been in the mushrooms on the pizza only you ate. Nobody else was poisoned.”

“M'ther f'cker,” Rick mumbles. That thrice-damned pineapple pizza.

“Don't you worry your pretty little head about it right now, though. We've got you covered,” Michonne announces. “Shane's running the investigation down at the station, said he's got some pretty good leads. You've got me, Beth and Daryl to take care of the house and kids. I think between the three of us, we're gonna be fine, don't you?”

“Daryl's still there?” Rick asks and licks his lips. He would've thought the homeless man was going to bolt as soon as he could walk. Maybe his injuries aren't that much better yet. It's only been three days, after all. Not nearly enough for broken ribs to heal.

“Didn't look like he was planning on leaving,” replies Michonne, her eyes on Rick's face, searching. “You want to tell me more about him? You never mentioned him before.”

“It's recent,” Rick mutters, apologetic. Michonne wouldn't have picked up the phone if he called to tell her about everything happening in his life, but he could've texted or emailed her. She reads messages. She just doesn't usually respond to them. Until she does.  
“Well, you've certainly got good taste,” Michonne says and winks. “He's one tasty piece of work. Those shoulders, Rick, I swear.”

“... Why the fuck everyone keeps implying that stuff,” Rick complains. “I'm straight, always been straight, it's not gonna change all of a sudden when I'm almost forty!” He regrets the little outburst immediately because talking so much is painful. But really, he's getting tired of this. Everybody calls Daryl his boyfriend like that's the best joke in the universe. Since when does helping out a man in need constitute wanting to bone him? Rick's never wanted to bone a man ever in his life. He's pretty sure he never will. And besides, isn't it disrespectful towards Daryl to assume such things about him? Rick doesn't have to know the man well to be convinced Daryl wouldn't appreciate being called any dude's boyfriend.

“Hey, calm down,” Michonne says, smiling. “It's just a joke. Wouldn't blame you if you did, though. Stop being straight. I haven't talked to him much, but from what Carl's been telling me, that's one cute man you've got there. I might make a move myself if you don't mind.”

“Do what you want,” Rick grumbles unnecessarily because when doesn't she?

He thinks about Daryl and Michonne together as a couple and the idea bothers him for some reason. It's like there's something wrong with the picture, but he can't precisely pinpoint what it is. By all means, he should be supportive if Michonne does get it on with Daryl, but he's reluctant to even consider it seriously. He can't imagine Daryl with a woman such as Michonne. Or Michonne with a man like Daryl, for that matter. They're nothing alike, at least from what Rick knows about the homeless man, and well. It just doesn't compute, no real reason. But who knows. Love works in mysterious ways. Maybe they'd actually be happy together.

Rick doesn't know how to feel about the fact _he_ wouldn't be, if that happened.

“I'll let you sleep now,” Michonne says. She strokes his bearded cheek gently. “You rest well, caveman. Got a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Rick sleeps like a baby. He doesn't dream this time.

When he wakes up again, he's alone in his bedroom. The sun is already up. He’s _not_ wearing a diaper and he very pointedly doesn’t try to think about who removed it for him. There's a full glass of water on the bedside table which Rick gulps down as soon as he's able to sit straight. His throat is still sore, but most of the pain from earlier is gone. He can move without wincing, so that's an improvement, though his head feels kind of funny, like his body axis is off-balance. He uses his newfound mobility to make a bathroom run. He doesn’t meet anyone on the way, fortunately, so nobody can witness his rather ungraceful stroll through the hall. Once he’s finally in the bathroom, he uses the utilities and decides to take a shower. It’s harder than it usually is, but Rick somehow manages not to fall down and bash his head in on the tiles. It’s a big success that makes him feel better about himself. He returns to the bedroom, wrapped in two towels, and gets dressed in a set of comfy pajamas. Now that he’s almost a dignified human being again, he settles down in the bed, tired but endlessly satisfied.

His stomach growls loudly and Rick thinks he could eat a damn horse, hooves and all. As if on cue, there's a knock on the door and Beth lets herself in without waiting for an answer. She's brought some sort of creamy soup on a tray.

“I heated you some broccoli cream soup, you like it, right?” She asks, setting the tray on the bedside table. She reaches out to help Rick sit up, fixes his pillow to better support his new position. “Heard you shuffling about up here. I would’ve come to assist you, but Judith was fussy. Had to finish feeding her first.”

“It’s fine, and I'm sorry,” Rick says sheepishly, “I invited you to stay with us so you could get away for a while and here you are, helping an invalid.”

Beth giggles. “Oh, this is just typical Mr. Grimes to me. Will you keep lazing about in bed every time I see you?”

“Oh come on, how many times do I gotta tell you? It's _Rick,_ not Mr. Grimes. I'm not that old. And you know that I got out of bed eventually,” Rick protests weakly, wondering what it will take for other people to forget how unbearable and pathetic he was in his first days on Hershel's farm.

He is happy to note his hands don't shake too badly, so he's capable of holding the bowl and eating by himself. Success after success today. A few more leaps like this and he’ll be a fully functional adult again in no time at all.

“So how are you, Beth?” He asks when most of the soup is gone and he's not starving anymore.

The girl drops her gaze to the floor and clasps her fingers nervously on the long sleeves of her sweater. “I don't know,” she says, barely audible even in the otherwise silent room.

Rick doesn't reply. He pats her arm gently, though, letting her know this way that he's here to listen if she needs someone to talk to. Beth sighs and shakes her head, exhales and forces a brave smile she's doubtlessly been putting on for her family's benefit. According to Hershel, she's been doing better, even went back to school for a moment until her mother's sudden death before Thanksgiving last year. She's been to therapy since then, but still she had two suicide attempts throughout the following months. She’s not at her worst right now, but Rick wishes he could help somehow, but he's not sure what he can do besides being there. Beth already has all the professional and pharmacological help she may need. Everything is in her hands now.

For all it's worth, she looks better than she did when Rick last saw her. She's gained a little weight and there's some color to her cheeks. Her clothes aren't gray and oversized; actually, she's wearing a blue floral dress under the brown, thick cable knit pullover. She's even painted her nails. It's not much, but it's an improvement.

She says, finally, “I like your garden,” and her smile turns a little more sincere.

Rick returns it easily. “It's not much, just tomatoes, bell peppers and carrots. Uh, and green beans? I planted some sunflowers, too. But really, it needs your input. Maybe you wanna help me out there tomorrow? You could tell me what else would fit in there.”

Beth shakes her head. “I really don't think you're going anywhere tomorrow,” she informs him, a touch of amusement in her voice. “I'm pretty sure Michonne and Mr. Walsh will sit on you if you try.”

“They won't,” Rick says firmly, but when Beth just smiles patiently at him, he loses his composure. “I mean, they wouldn't, would they? Nah. They know I've got stuff to do. Things! They can't keep me in bed forever.”

Beth giggles. “Oh, Mr. Grimes. I mean, Rick. How are you going to stop them?” She asks, pats him affectionately on the head. Rick groans in an exaggerated fashion and wins a bout of genuine laughter from the girl which warms his heart. Beth then picks up the bowl and tray, and leaves, giggling softly to herself as she goes.

Turns out, Beth was right and Rick isn’t allowed to do anything more strenuous than going to the bathroom or holding Judith for the next few days. Whenever he tries to protest, Michonne, Carl and Daryl team up against him. They’re an unlikely trio, especially with Daryl fitting in so well with them, but it seems they’re unified on one front with just a single goal in mind: keeping Rick in bed, bored to the point when he’d pay good money to have someone shooting at him. Just so anything happened. He’s almost desperate enough to invite Beth back to his bedside so she can treat him like an indulgent nurse in a care facility for incapacitated seniors. Maybe she'd open up to him this time? Or she could just continue to make fun of him, it would work too. Anything to cure this boredom.

“Bathed the cat,” Daryl informs him on Saturday. He actually comes to spend time with Rick sometimes, he sits in Michonne’s rocking chair by the bed and to Rick’s surprise, even talks a little. Not much, and definitely nothing about himself, but at least he interacts with Rick on a daily basis, of his own free will.

“What cat,” Rick asks, frowning. This is not a topic he expected.

“Ol’ ‘n ugly, sleeps on the porch,” Daryl explains. He’s not looking at Rick, busy biting on the cuticles on his right thumb. “Bites more ‘n yer lil’ ass-kicker, but purrs more. Had fleas. Bathed ‘im yesterday ‘n brushed ‘im, an’ he sleeps ‘n my bedroom now. Won’t go outside. Named him Cat. Um. Didn’ wanna kick ‘im out.”

“It’s fine, don’t kick him out,” Rick says. “I was gonna take him in anyway. Thanks for giving him a bath.”

“Yer sister helped,” Daryl mumbles. “Carol. Removed my stitches ‘n all, then showed me how ta take care ‘a Cat.”

Rick smiles. “Yeah, I can imagine. She’s good with strays, that Carol. Be careful or she’ll try to adopt the cat and you, too.”

“Ya already did, though, didn’cha?” Daryl says and the corner of his lips twitches into an almost-smile. “Got me well ‘nuff adopted ‘n all. Been wantin’ to leave at first, right after the fever done got down. But ya got yerself almost killed widda goddamn pizza like a stupid ass ‘n Walsh made me take care of ya brats.”

“Not how he tells it,” Rick teases. “He says you wouldn’t leave Judith alone for five minutes and also you’ve been walking Carl to school every day this week. Apparently, his teachers already know you by name.”

“… ‘s a good kid,” Daryl mumbles. He seems embarrassed, like he thinks the ongoing reveal of his soft side for Rick’s children will make Rick respect him less. He couldn’t be more wrong. If anything, it almost makes Rick want to build him a monument.

“And you’re a good man,” Rick informs him. He reaches out and pats Daryl on the knee, offering the man a genuinely grateful smile. The fact Daryl doesn’t immediately scoot away from the touch is such amazing progress, Rick doesn't know how to stop beaming. Because Daryl seems to be every bit the person Rick hoped he’d be: a kind, gentle soul, maybe a little foul-mouthed, but honest and surprisingly loyal. It’s a bit strange, but Rick feels like he’s known Daryl for years, not just a few weeks, over the majority of which he didn’t even get to see the man. Like they’re destined to be friends or something.

“Or yer a naïve one,” Daryl says with an unusual fondness in his voice as he looks down at Rick’s hand on his knee. He hesitates a moment then sets his own hand on top of Rick’s, squeezing for a few seconds before letting go. Rick takes the hint and removes his hand too, and the moment breaks like glass. Daryl shuffles uncomfortably and mumbles something that sounds like  _gotta go_ , and he leaves without even giving Rick a chance to say anything.

It’s fine. He’s not running away, just retreating, like a cat that’s been pet to the maximum level of tolerance for human contact.

At least Shane is there to take his place about an hour later, so Rick doesn’t have enough time to properly die of utter boredom. He’s not the best companion, not with the restless pacing he’s been doing ever since Rick regained consciousness; it’s easy to see he’s itching with the urge to make somebody pay for this. Unsurprisingly, when he finally settles on the stool he carries over from the other end of the bedroom - unlike Daryl, he doesn’t dare sit in Michone’s chair - there’s a minute of uncomfortable silence before he starts talking about the investigation.

“Talked to the pizza guy today,” he says. “The cook who made that shit. Young dude, name's Glenn Rhee. I just looked at him and knew he was hiding something, and what do you know? Kid didn’t even wait a second to confess everything.”

“Are you even allowed to talk about this?” Rick asks uselessly. He knows Shane isn’t actually allowed. He also knows it’s not going to stop him. He’s going to keep Rick in the loop regardless of the procedures.

“Said he was blackmailed to do it. Got approached by a shady type who threatened his girlfriend. Knew where she lived, stuff like that. Handed him the mushrooms and said to spike the pizzas. Special kind, injected with psilocybin, remember the lab tests? Normal ‘shrooms don’t got enough of it to cause such a reaction. Wasn’t really you they targeted, I don’t think, Rhee was supposed to get the mushrooms on the entire order. Guess we gotta find the blackmailer to find out the motive. Well, whoever that sick fuck is, Rhee fucked it up for him. He saw you ordered the baby menu, and he didn’t want to endanger a baby, so he made the additional pineapple pizza and put all the mushrooms on it. Hoped nobody would eat it since it was, you know, a _bonus pineapple pizza,_ and he would've explained it to the guy somehow, that it ain’t his fault nobody touched it. Guess he didn’t count on you being such a jackass.”

Rick chuckles. “I learned my lesson, I promise. No more strange pizza.”

“You’re not having any damn pizza again ever, Grimes, you’re banned from pizza. Actually, you’re banned from any takeout. I’ll tell ‘chonnie and Dixon, they’re gonna make sure you only eat food that’s fucking certified safe,” Shane decides fervently, and Rick’s kind of getting fed up with people treating him like he’s a child who needs supervision-

Wait a second.

“’ _chonnie_?” Rick asks and tries for the sleaziest expression he can muster to mock his friend.

He’s not surprised. Of course Shane’s infatuated with Michonne. This was predictable, like everything about Shane is predictable. Everyone is infatuated with Michonne. Everyone Rick knows, including his married sister, including _himself_ , but for some reason, those who fall for her the hardest are especially macho men who think they’re the toughest cookie in the box. She’s going to eat Shane for breakfast. Obviously. And Rick doesn’t even pity him.

“Shut up,” Shane snaps, blushing furiously, instantaneously turning into a twelve-year old with a crush. “Don’t you dare say anything to her or I’ll damage ya.”

“When you start bashfully asking if she talks about you when we're alone and if they’re nice things she says, that’s it, that’s when I’m telling her,” Rick warns, grinning.

Shane swats him playfully on the arm. “You do that, I’m telling everyone how you swooned straight into Dixon’s arms while waxing poetic about his pretty eyes or something,” he warns.

Rick blinks, then swats back. “Shut up, no I didn’t. Don’t remember anything like that!”

Truth is, he doesn’t remember anything at all after eating the first damn slice of that pizza. Still, he’s reasonably sure nothing like what Shane’s telling him ever happened. Maybe the swooning part isn't that far-fetched, but the part about poetry and Daryl's eyes? Nope. No way Rick's done that. Why would he? He doesn't even know what color eyes the man has-

Except he does. Pale, grayish blue. Like washed out denim or the sky when it's both sunny and rainy at the same time. What? They're nice eyes, they’re interesting. Rick may have noticed their color once or twice. But he sure as hell didn't _wax poetic_ about them at any point of his life. Daryl would’ve said something if that happened. Wouldn’t he?

Fuck, he probably wouldn’t.

“Oooh, yes, you totally did,” Shane says in a sing-song voice, which is how Rick definitely knows with immense relief that he’s lying. “Dude’s too polite to call you out on it, but you totally tried to serenade him-“

“Did not,” Rick protests, trying to hold back laughter.

“Did so!” Shane says and the satisfied face he makes looks even more ridiculous when his eyes widen in shock once Rick hits him with a pillow.

Whoever said two dudes in late thirties can’t have an all-out pillow fight using just three pillows, a duvet and a single sock… Well, whoever it was, was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tenth chapter! How did you like it? Are you all ready to enter the next stage of the domestic life of a man and his family where nothing ever goes wrong and there are absolutely no sinister enemies just waiting to ruin the fun?
> 
> Also, why, yes, I enjoy the virtually meaningless TMI bits like "Daryl pissing in a basin because he can't walk" a few chapters prior, and "Rick having to wear a diaper because that's better than putting a pipe in his dick and also because I don't remember what it's called in English and it would be awkward to search in Google when I'm at work". At least now they're even? Who knows. Rick doesn't. He's got no idea if someone besides Michonne changed the diapers and washed his junk for him when he was asleep.  
> (Spoiler: yeah.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing about life-changing realizations is, they tend to creep up on people when they're least expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me take this opportunity to thank everyone who takes the time to comment on this story. I love your comments and I love reading all the theories you guys share about why things happen the way they do. You all make me want to keep writing this story and this ship, and writing it makes me happy, so once again, thank you!

The absolute worst thing about life-changing realizations is they tend to creep up on people who least expect to be hit by them. It’s the indisputable truth known by philosophers all over the world and by regular folk alike. It’s how the universe works, no exception.

Rick’s moment of enlightenment comes on Monday morning, over a week after the unfortunate pizza incident.

He has finally had it with all the coddling, cooing and especially with the monotony of thick creamy soups for every meal every day. He’s at a point when he’s ready to temporarily move to another state and stay in a seedy motel room he’d share with cockroaches and rats just so he can have a moment of peace with nobody trying to do things for him. He’s completely fine, he’s got enough spunk to argue about it, he’s not going to keel over just from leaving his bedroom. Really, from the way they’ve all been acting, he suspects he’d be allowed to have a walk when he’s fifty years old. The funny thing is, as soon as Rick steps into the kitchen, freshly bathed, dressed in jeans and a blue button-up shirt, his beard trimmed and groomed but still wild and probably overgrown, he instantly feels better than at any point of his extended bed rest-slash-imprisonment. It’s quarter past five in the morning, an hour he used to consider ungodly just over a week ago. Nobody’s up yet to stop him and Rick is done sleeping his life away.

He feeds Cat who yells at him in that special hoarse meow until the little paw-print bowl set for him under the table is filled. Rick smiles when he hears the slurping noises the animal makes as he eats eagerly. He walks up to the calendar and writes a reminder to book a vet appointment to set a surgery date: Cat needs to be spayed soon before he decides to start spraying around the house as he becomes more comfortable about his new territory. 

Then, Rick starts taking inventory of his kitchen. Despite Carol’s everyday presence in the house, evidenced clearly by the strange placement of some utensils, Rick can tell where almost everything is from the get-go. It seems somebody went to the trouble of replacing items to their normal locations every day after Carol was done with her rampage and left to go home. He’ll have to ask about it and thank whoever saved him from an ocean of endless frustration. He’s pleased to note there’s quite a nice amount of groceries to choose from. For some reason, he was worried without him there to make sure everyone ate right, the whole family including Shane would’ve just eaten instant noodles or something similarly unhealthy. Seems they all ate nicely instead, and they definitely didn’t only have soup, judging by the leftover roasted meat Rick finds in the fridge. He can’t identify the type of meat other than  _ not chicken _ , but God, it smells nice.

He decides what he needs is a sandwich and so he starts to prepare it. A state-of-the-art sandwich on fresh whole wheat bread filled to the brim with meat, tomato, lettuce, onion, and mozzarella. The kind of sandwich only seen in condiment commercials and hotel breakfast ads. The Perfect Sandwich.

Then he thinks about the others who may have been annoying in their overbearing protectiveness, but they did it all for him and him only, and he smiles. What better way to thank everyone than by making breakfast? So that’s what he does: he prepares big sandwiches personalized to account for what he knows about everybody’s preferences. And so, the sandwich for Beth is vegan (peanut butter, apple slices, vegan cheese, bean sprouts, and spinach) while Carl’s is almost identical to Rick’s with the exception that it has cheddar instead of mozzarella; the one for Michonne is spicier and doesn’t have any of the roasted meat, replaced by smoked chicken breast. The sandwich for Judith is similar to Beth’s, but it’s on a light oatmeal bagel with sesame she likes for some unfathomable reason. Rick hesitates a moment with the sandwich for Daryl whom he knows the least of the current residents of the house; in the end, like with Carl’s, he goes with a variation of his own Perfect Sandwich, but with a more defined taste guaranteed by the addition of pickled garlic, melted cheddar, honey mustard, and fried onion, and it’s without the mozzarella.

After a moment of thought, Rick also makes four smaller but no less delicious sandwiches for Shane which he wraps in paper and places into one of the lunchboxes he has to drop by the station later since he knows the man’s going to be starving in the middle of his double shift. He doesn’t make one for Carol because she’s more of a pancake person and anyway, she won’t be coming in from Atlanta to see him until later afternoon.

He’s petting Cat after he’s just finished brewing a pot of coffee when Michonne steps into the kitchen, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of what are most definitely Rick’s sweats. She yawns and rubs at her eyes before she notices Rick standing there by the window with a steaming cup in his outstretched hand. 

“ Good morning, beautiful,” Rick says.

For a moment there, Michonne looks torn between the urge to swat him for being too chipper at the crack of dawn, and gratefully accepting the coffee. Cat looks between the both of them, judgmental like all cats in the world, and leaves when he realizes nobody is trying to pet him or feed him treats. Michonne eventually settles on something in between: she takes the offered cup but gives Rick a withering glare in return. 

“ Whoever let you out of bed?” She asks after the first few sips warm up her ice-cold heart and make her a little more tolerant of erratic human behaviors.

“ Wasn’t in anyone’s bed but mine, so I guess that’d be me,” Rick replies and smiles when Michonne’s glare breaks so she can roll her eyes.

“ Yes, you’re very funny for a father of two, I promise,” she mocks and then looks at the counter. “So that’s what you’ve been doing here at ass-crack of dawn o’clock. You’re gonna eat all that? I mean, you’re not exactly chubby, but…”

She trails off, looking Rick up and down like she’s judging him. Ouch. He knows he’s not in the best shape, but this is slander and he will not stand for it.

“ Oh, I’m kidding, don’t you look so sad, that’s unfair,” Michonne protests when Rick does his best to look like a puppy that’s just been very unfairly fat-shamed.

“ See, I’ve made you this bitchin’ good sandwich,” Rick announces. “But now I kinda want to eat it myself, just so you see life isn’t fair.”

“ Aww. You wouldn’t withhold Daryl’s sandwich from him,” Michonne complains. She stands by the window with Judith’s comfy seat, leaning her hip against the safety railing.

“ I bet Daryl wouldn’t ever be mean to me,” Rick says with conviction.

Michonne grins. “True,” she agrees. “And I bet  _ he _ wouldn’t let you out of  _ his _ bed if you know what I mean.”

Rick doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just pinches the bridge of his nose and growls in frustration. Here it goes again, and he’s tired of having to think about it. Seriously, had he known taking a homeless man in would suddenly put his sexuality into question with every friend and family member he has, he would’ve considered putting Daryl in a hotel instead. Like a dirty little secret. As if that wouldn’t be more suspicious. Not that there is anything suspicious at all in his relationship with Daryl - no, not a relationship, he can’t deal with ambiguous words right now - his  _ friendship _ with Daryl. Friendship. Same as with Shane and nobody ever tried to accuse him of wanting to date Shane or anything like that. And it’s exactly like that with Daryl. Even though God help him, Rick doesn’t know why he can recall Daryl’s eye color with perfect clarity at this hour of the day while he doesn’t even remember if Shane’s eyes are gray or brown or whatever the hell else.

He supposes there’s a solution to this conundrum he’s finding himself in: he needs to start dating women again. It’s been a year and a half since Lori, and they weren’t really a couple anymore by the time everything went down to the Devil. It’s high time he got his game on. He’s not at all intimidated by the prospect of going out on dates after over twenty-five years of being with the same woman who was his first crush back in junior high. Not at all. He can totally date other women now. Shane does it all the time and Shane’s the farthest thing from a smooth-talker Rick’s ever met, so how hard can it really be? In no time and with minimal effort, he definitely can find someone he’ll connect with, someone nice and kind-hearted he could really entrust with both himself and his children.

_ Someone with boobs _ .  _ A girl, no, not a girl, a woman _ , he clarifies mentally because his mind wastes no time reminding him that he already knows somebody fulfilling the original criteria and that’s why he’s frustrated here. Or rather, he’s frustrated because his altogether not-hitherto-contested grasp on straightness may or may not be weakening. He’s not even attracted to Daryl physically, he’s pretty sure about it, though he can admit the man’s broad shoulders are to die for and his eyes are incredibly pretty not only because they’re an interesting color but also because they just are. And his shy smile, whenever he’s playing with Judith or interacting with Carl, is possibly the cutest expression Rick’s ever seen on anyone besides his baby daughter.

And this is his life-changing moment of enlightenment. It’s so sudden, so unexpected, this realization, this indisputable truth dawning on him, that Rick thinks he might be having a stroke. Or at least he wishes he had one. At least a stroke wouldn’t require him to redefine his entire sense of self. There’s no way to avoid it though, the glaringly obvious truth that everybody else seems to have realized before Rick gave it a single thought:

He might be romantically attracted to Daryl Dixon.

“ Fuck it all,” he says in a heartfelt albeit not very loud exclamation of emotion. His therapist would be proud, although he would also be rather confused. At least Rick thinks so.  _ He  _ is definitely confused.

“ Oh, baby, don’t be like that,” Michonne says, apologetic as she pats his arm. “I’m just teasing you because you’re so easy. You know I love you, right? Even if I’m difficult sometimes?”

“ God, Michi, of course I know,” Rick breathes out and shakes his head. It doesn’t work. He might be having a panic attack. “I’m kinda just now in the middle of having my big gay crisis and I think I’m not ready to be having my big gay crisis today. Can we like… eat our sandwiches and not joke about  _ it _ ? Or mention it? Or even think about it for the next however long it takes me to come to terms with it?”

Blinking, Michonne stands there a moment without saying a thing. Then, she nods and squeezes Rick’s arm in silent reassurance. Rick sighs, embraces her and kisses her forehead gratefully before he hands her the plate with the sandwich.

That’s when Daryl comes in, knocking on the open door. He squints at the both of them and seems a little confused at the way Michonne is almost completely wrapped in Rick’s arms as they both make pleased sounds in variable levels of mock-suggestiveness while eating.

“ Y’all decent? Can return lat’r ‘f ‘m botherin’ ya,” He says hesitantly. His voice is warm and sleep-riddled. It gives Rick goosebumps and he wonders who the hell he was kidding. Now that he allowed the thought of maybe possibly having a little man-crush on Daryl, the tiny trickle of attraction is turning into a Goddamn avalanche threatening to bury and suffocate him.

“ We’re just cuddling platonically, but thanks,” Michonne announces, smiling to Daryl in a way that’s way softer than Rick’s used to seeing her interact with people.

“ Platonically, huh?” Daryl huffs, amusement evident in the way the corners of his lips twitch upwards and isn’t it strange that this is only the second time Rick’s seen Daryl laughing, but he can already paint a perfect picture of what it looks like when he closes his eyes? God, he laughed at Shane being like a thirteen-year-old about Michonne only days ago, but he’s no better himself.

“ I’ll have you know platonic cuddling is a completely normal thing in this household,” Michonne says. “You’re perfectly welcome to hug anyone who steps over the threshold as long as their dedicated magnet is on the fridge door,” she adds, and Rick chuckles because it’s the truth, but it sounds a little silly.

It's a thing they came up with Lori way back when Carl was still just a gleam in his father's eye. Because Rick used to have a lot of trouble talking about feelings and especially letting anyone know when he wasn't dealing with stuff as good as he wanted to, Lori made up the whole fridge magnet thing. The initial idea was that if Rick didn't want her to push, he'd move the magnet to the back of the fridge and she'd know to keep her distance. It evolved in time as more people's magnets joined theirs on the fridge door.

Rick's magnet is a very old, slightly faded mother duck. Lori chose it for Rick because the cartoon bird had blue eyes and curly head feathers. It came as part of a four-piece set with a papa, mama and two ducklings, one black and the other yellow – Carl and Judith, respectively, though Carl's been going on forever about how wants a new magnet now that he's thirteen and practically an adult. The papa duck magnet got lost during the move since nobody ever used him anyway. Lori's magnet was a cartoony river otter with a little flower on the head and a plaque saying  _ I heart Atlanta _ . Carol has one, too, of course: a kitten in a cardboard box settled atop a big inscription  _ adopt don't shop _ . Michonne's is a samurai sword piercing a heart which she claims is a logo of some fencing school and she just wanted it because the sword's cool. Beth has a handmade one made of clear polyurethane resin with embossed pressed flowers. Her sister Maggie also has one, a horse in a cowboy hat. Hershel's is just a simple promotional magnet from his old veterinary clinic which he chose because it reminded him of where he met Beth's mother. More recently, Shane got his magnet only after the family moved to Alexandria because he didn't use to come down to Georgia often enough. It's a handcuffed teddy-bear.

One day, Rick hopes Daryl's magnet will join the rest of them on the fridge, and not only because he's got a newfound interest in learning what it's like to hold the man in his arms without risking having his nose broken. It's about belonging and about having this safe zone here in the house where they aren't all strangers but rather family who support each other. Regardless of his very confusing feelings, Rick wants to be this to Daryl: a person Daryl can count on to have his back and offer comfort if necessary.

“ Ain't much into huggin',” Daryl says, scoffing. He looks hungrily at the sandwiches still waiting for their claimers. “Would kill for one o' those, though.”

“ It's your lucky day, then,” Rick announces and hands him a plate. 

Daryl doesn’t hesitate as he did back when Rick first brought him food to the park. He bites into the sandwich with all of the grace of somebody used to seizing the opportunity when it comes to mealtime, and he chews a little too fast, swallowing a bit too soon. But he pauses after a few bites and looks back to Rick, an unreadable expression on his face.

“‘tis good,” he says, but the tone he uses suggests even he realizes it’s an understatement. He amends quickly, “Best fuckin’ sandwich anyone’s made me, man.”

Rick grins, attempting valiantly not to blush and mostly succeeding. He doesn’t understand why it’s so hard to act natural all of a sudden. He could do it before, there’s literally no need to make it awkward now that his attraction for Daryl is something he’s actually aware of. He can’t do worse than Carl with his crushes. 

“Rick’s sandwiches are to die for,” Michonne agrees and brushes her fingers through the curly hair at the back of Rick’s head. “He’d be the best boyfriend material if only I wasn’t so scared of the wildman beard,” she jokes, poking the beard as she speaks.

Rick laughs, opens his mouth on a witty retort, but he doesn’t quite get it out before:

“Dun’ see nuthin’ wrong with it,” Daryl says, shrugging, and he devours the rest of the sandwich in record time. He licks his fingers when he’s done, tongue sneaking out from between thin lips to thoroughly clean away the remnants of sauce and meat juices from the digits. 

Rick has a moment when he thinks he’s safe after all, that everything is okay with him and he’s still straight because the sight does absolutely nothing to him. He looks at Daryl and sees a man used to being hungry and attempting to savor every drop of taste from the food he gets because he lived a hard life where another meal was never guaranteed. If anything at all, it makes him sad, sad for the things Daryl had to go through before Rick found him and decided to make him family. 

Then Daryl has to go and ruin it all by pulling his index finger into his mouth and  _ sucking _ , cheeks hollowing out and pretty eyes sliding closed. Rick’s brain short-circuits and he chokes on his mouthful of sandwich. Michonne chuckles as she hits his back rhythmically to save him from a very embarrassing death, Daryl stands there all confused and worried, and that’s when Carl walks into the kitchen followed by Cat who starts meowing for attention or food, or both, and why do they all randomly get up so early in the morning anyway? Rick makes a wheezing noise that’s meant as reassurance but doesn’t work because, well, it sounds like he’s being strangled at best. It’s chaos for a moment there because Carl immediately starts panicking, convinced somebody poisoned Rick again. There’s yelling from Carl and more choking from Rick. Michonne lets go of Rick to try and calm Carl down before he wakes Judith with his hysteria because they definitely don’t need another screaming child in the fray, Rick coughs and finally spits out the piece of meat that tried to kill him, Cat eats it, Daryl freezes with his hand on Rick’s shoulder, Beth runs into the kitchen with her phone out mid-calling Shane for help, and then they all sort of stare at one another for a few minutes. Just a normal morning in the Grimes household, though maybe  _ madhouse  _ might be a better word.

“... you know what, you don’t need to send that patrol after all,” Beth says to the phone when she can speak again. “Yeah. No, I promise. We’re just having breakfast. Yes, Mr. Walsh. Yes, it’s fine. He’s fine. Everybody is fine- Okay, yes, you can talk to him,” she says and frowns, eyebrows knitting together and lips pursing. She holds out the phone to Rick. 

He takes it and says, voice still kinda hoarse from all the coughing and choking: “I made you sandwiches, honey,” and Michonne bites her lip to not burst out laughing. And then she does, she explodes into giggles, and then they’re all laughing, even Carl, all of them but Daryl who simply smiles, eyes twinkling and crinkling in the corners. And Rick decides right then it doesn’t matter in the end that he’s attracted to a man. It’s new and a bit frightening, and he’s definitely not over the initial gay panic yet, but he’ll deal with it eventually. But the feeling of youthful, almost innocent joy swelling in his chest at the idea of liking somebody, romantically, again? 

He’s more than fine with  _ that _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, Rick, we knew you'd get there eventually!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cookies, princesses and a new neighbor.

Much to his surprise, the realization that he likes Daryl romantically changes nothing in Rick’s life whatsoever and he starts wondering what exactly he expected it to change. It’s not like he’s ever going to do anything about this little crush of his. Despite the few slip-ups of his treacherous mind which can’t just shut up and give him a break, Rick’s still pretty much convinced he isn’t attracted to the man sexually. Case in point: when he jerks off that night in the shower, it’s short, efficient and easy, but what’s the most important, it’s nothing more than a way to relieve some tension. He doesn’t imagine Daryl’s muscular arms and he doesn’t revisit the memory of Daryl sucking on his finger, even if he briefly contemplates the idea of either. He doesn’t really fantasize about anything in particular and when he comes with a low sigh, eyes closed, his most prominent thought is that he should buy more shampoo tomorrow because they’re almost all out. So, no, he doesn’t think he’s really any less straight than he used to be before Daryl.

Michonne calls him a silly goose, but she also says she’s not getting involved.

“You gotta figure this out for yourself,” she tells him and doesn’t breach the subject again.

It’s not like there’s really much of a subject to breach because as far as Rick is concerned, life goes on like before the Evil Pizza Incident and everything settles down into the pleasant routine of every day.

Daryl helps him install the wooden security gate at the top of the stairs when it becomes apparent Judith is very adamant about learning to walk. She uses every aid available to her: walls, furniture, people’s legs - to prop herself against. Stubbornly, she takes one shaky step after another, never giving up even when her chubby knees wobble and she collapses forward into a very dramatic-looking crawl or backward on her butt. Just like Carl when he was her age, Judith is more of a doer than a talker. Her word repertoire consists solely of monosyllables and baby tongue. Her movement range, however, expands with each passing day, thus the security gate. Judith doesn’t fit between the spokes much to her chagrin, so she settles for pushing stuff through them instead. She’s especially happy if she manages to drop her favorite wooden blocks on top of someone’s head. She’s growing up to be a real nightmare. Rick’s grateful he doesn’t have to deal with all of this alone.

It’s an early, warm Saturday afternoon in May. Beth and Carl are out since early morning: Shane picked them up and took them horse-riding. He claimed he got invited to a riding school by its grateful owner after he helped catch a thief on the property. Rick suspects he decided to take the kids because he can’t ride and he knows the adults would make fun of him for it. Still, he liked the idea from the start. It’s a great opportunity for Beth to get out of the house to do something she loves without the incessant memories of her mother she had to deal at the Greene property, and it’s also a chance for Carl to do something fun outside without Judith’s presence. It’s great that Carl loves to play with Judith, but taking care of a toddler shouldn’t be a teenager’s main hobby. Rick hopes maybe this outing with Shane and Beth can convince him it’s possible to enjoy activities which don’t involve his baby sister.

Rick watches proudly as Judith crosses the five feet of kitchen between her and Daryl in shaky but very deliberate little steps. The man smiles and ruffles her hair, and Judith giggles, then says loudly and firmly:

“Da!”

And Rick frowns, pausing in his task of mixing dough for chocolate chip cookies, because that’s _his_ designation. Daryl looks up at him, eyes widened and expression apologetic, but Rick isn’t angry with him obviously, just a little miffed. It’s not like he can really blame anyone, of course, in Judith’s mind this _Da_ probably sounds completely different than the _Da_ reserved for Rick and it’s nobody’s fault if it’s a difference virtually no adult can tell.

Maybe he should’ve taught his daughter to call him _papa_ instead of _dad_.

“At least she’s not calling either of you her mommy,” Michonne teases from where she’s sitting at the table, arms full of the loudly purring Cat. After his surgery last week, the old tomcat has become a complete sweetheart, eager to be pet and hugged at all times. He still sleeps in Daryl’s room at night, but he’s happy to be around everyone else during the day.

“‘s jus’ tryin’ ta say mah name,” Daryl says, still looking at Rick like he’s searching for confirmation that Rick won’t hold a grudge. He’s rather cute like this, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his hair full of colorful ribbons Judith put there, his face still splattered with pigments from when he let the little girl practice finger painting on himself. He’s got a rather crooked, blue-and-pink heart drawn on his cheek.

“Guess we’re gonna have to share the monicker until princess Jude learns more words,” Rick decides, smiling. He dips a finger in the cookie dough and lifts it to his mouth. He licks the dough away and hums. He pushes away from the counter, a spoon filled with the dough in hand, and comes to stand by Daryl.

“Can’t tell if it’s sweet enough. Care to have a taste?” He says, offering the spoon. Instead of grabbing the spoon as Rick expects, Daryl leans in and licks the dough off while the spoon is still in Rick’s hand. He misses at first and smears some dough over his nose and cheek. Rick laughs when Daryl lets out an exaggerated groan of pleasure, sounding something like a parody of the woman from the really bad chocolate commercial they saw on TV once and made fun of ever since.

“You’re ridiculous,” Rick informs him, rolling his eyes.

“Yea,” Daryl agrees. “‘s good, though, sweet ‘nuff. Jus’ add more chocolate chips.”

“Demanding, aren’t we,” Rick grumbles in good humor. “You’re a mess. Clean yourself up, you’re a bad influence over my daughter.”

“Now yer noticin’?” Daryl jokes, or at least Rick hopes it’s a joke and not a self-deprecating remark the man sometimes falls back on when he’s insecure.  

“Dunno, I’d say she could do worse with role models,” Michone says. Cat meows unhappily when she stops petting him for a few seconds. “What, you impatient little beast?” She coos to the tomcat and scratches behind his ears.

“Yer spoilin’ ‘im,” Daryl complains without real conviction. He scrubs his cheek with the back of his hand which gets rid of most of the dough but not all of it.

“Got some on your nose,” Rick says.

Daryl crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue like he’s trying to lick the dough off of the tip of his nose, which is possibly the most hilarious thing Judith has ever seen, judging by how she starts giggling uncontrollably. Daryl tickles her and smears some of the dough from his nose on her cheek, making her squeal with high-pitched laughter and try to wiggle out of his grasp. Finally, he lets her go and Judith makes two swaying little steps to Rick who crouches in front of her, already wetting a handkerchief with some spit. He cleans the dough off her face, ignoring the impatient cooing noises she’s making as she attempts to get free. Once he’s done with her, she escapes crawling to Michonne. Rick looks at Daryl, frowns and cleans his nose, too.

Michonne laughs, sets Cat on the table and picks up Judith instead.

“I guess you should start calling Rick your mommy after all,” she informs the little girl.

“Chi,” Judith says seriously and grabs a handful of Michonne’s dreadlocks.

“Yes, sweetheart, okay, I love you. But the hair’s off-limits,” Michonne says, trying to extricate herself from Judith’s surprisingly strong grasp.

Daryl gets up and goes to the rescue while Rick, laughing in a bit of vindictive satisfaction, returns to the counter to finish the cookie dough. Pouring some more chocolate chips into the bowl, he watches Daryl take Judith who instantly lets go of Michonne’s hair and pulls on his. The man doesn’t even twitch, just looks at Judith with soft eyes. This is why Rick likes him so much. This softness, this incredible sweetness he displays freely every time he’s with Judith or Carl.

He supposes he doesn’t mind Judith calling Daryl her _Da_ , after all. He supposes the man deserves it.

Once the cookies are in the oven, Rick leaves Judith with Daryl who promises to take good care of her and carries her upstairs, stopping in the hallway to twirl her around and make whooshing sounds the little girl loves. Rick smiles fondly and goes out to the garden to water the vegetable patches and the sprouting sunflowers. Michonne joins him shortly to sit on the newly installed bench under the apple tree and sunbathe with her laptop. She doesn’t talk much, mostly spends the time typing. Rick asked about it once.

“Maybe I’m writing a memoir. Don’t worry, I’ll mention you in the dedication,” Michonne joked in that tone she uses when she doesn’t want to explain herself and wishes to be left alone. Rick respects it and doesn’t ask again. He doesn’t need to.

Michonne has issues. She never told Rick what she used to do back when she was still part of special ops, but he knows she still has nightmares about it. A few years ago she mentioned a school in Iraq seemingly out of the blue, with no context whatsoever. It was a slip-up, a meaningless tidbit of information, but her eyes became hollow and her expression haunted and it’s enough for Rick to imagine what she must’ve been and what orders she’d had to follow. Michonne doesn’t believe in talking it out with a therapist or a friend. Instead, she picks up activities she hopes will help her get over it. Rick’s got some paintings she did, the one in his bedroom he likes the most. She did nature photography for a time but got bored. Volunteered at animal shelters and then, when that wasn’t enough, went on mercy missions to India. Ran marathons, took up bungee jumping, got a pilot license. Now she’s writing, but who knows what’s next. Rick just selfishly hopes whatever it is, it won’t take Michonne far away from home again. If it does, he won’t stop her going, he couldn’t if he wanted to, he’s never going to be enough for her to want to stay - but he’s going to miss her so damn much.

For now, though, Michonne’s still here, typing on the keyboard, swift fingers dancing over the keys, pausing on a thought, mouth forming ideas to compare their sound to how they look in her mind. She deletes what seem to be whole paragraphs before typing words again. Rick watches her from where he sits on the grass after setting the sprinkler among the tomatoes. He observes how Michonne frowns, how her eyebrows knit together at something in the text she’s written, then her features soften, then she bites her lips. He looks away and watches the rivulets of water from the sprinkler as they climb into the air and fall in hundreds of droplets, some washing over the tomato plants, others going straight to the dry earth underneath. Sun catches in the drops, forming a private light show only for Rick’s eyes, creating a tiny rainbow among the leaves. He thinks about Daryl and how the man’s eyes are crinkled at the corners when he smiles in that non-obvious, barely-there way of his, unsure, uncertain like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to be happy and show it. He thinks about Michonne and how she sleeps on the couch in the living room sometimes, wrapped in her blanket like it can keep her safe from the world, snuggling a stuffed animal swiped from Judith’s collection. He thinks about Beth and how the young girl has the eyes of a much older person but does her best to re-learn how to enjoy life again, even if she still cries herself to sleep every night. He thinks about Shane, too, about how his tough best friend pretends so hard that he’s a player who needs no-one, but all he wants is to have people he could protect and a woman who would love him for all he is the way he isn’t capable of loving himself.

He thinks, finally, about himself, Rick Grimes, the single father with no clue where his life is heading. He thinks about the wife he still misses so much despite their marriage falling apart even before she died, about the children he’s so afraid of failing, about the things he used to want and the things he still wants after all.

They all have issues, the lot of them. Maybe it’s normal, maybe all families have issues. What they have that some others don’t is, they have each other’s backs. It’s enough.

That evening, Daryl helps him with the final preparations for dinner. He didn’t want to, claimed it’s a woman’s job - got clipped in the ear for it, too - but in the end, he got to work, grumbling under his breath about _them damn feminists_. It’s not serious, none of it, Rick can tell from the amused twinkle in Daryl’s eyes and the way the corner of his lip twitches upwards. The man is clumsy at the task he’s given, like he’s got no idea what to do with a knife and a cucumber, so he’s not particularly helpful. Rick likes his company in the kitchen, though. He tries not to laugh at the offended look on Daryl’s face when the knife slips and catches on the man’s finger. Instead, he grasps Daryl by the wrist and pulls him towards the sink, maneuvers his hand under the stream of cold tap water. He rummages through the nearest drawer for bandages. He finds a box of Band-aids with Disney princesses.

“Don’cha dare,” Daryl warns and Rick grins.

“Which one’s your favorite?” He asks teasingly.

“None a’them, shut up,” Daryl says and tries to withdraw his hand, but Rick catches him by the forearm.

“Mine’s Mulan, though I like Tiana too. I think Jude likes Rapunzel the most, but then again her favorite movie was Moana, so I’m not sure,” Rick informs the man. They’ve been going through all Disney movies they could get their hands on over the last week because Michonne accidentally revealed she’d never watched a single one of them in her life.

Daryl mutters something inaudible. At Rick’s questioning look, he repeats louder, “Merida,” and he flushes adorably like he’s embarrassed to admit he even knows any of the princesses.

“Because of the bow thing?” Rick asks, smiling as he remembers how Daryl told them stories about going hunting with a crossbow when he was younger and how he got into trouble because of it sometimes. He picks out a _Brave_ bandage from the box. He dries off Daryl’s hand with a paper towel and puts the Band-aid on the injured finger.

“‘cause of how she’s with ‘er family,” Daryl says, looking down at his hand still in Rick’s grasp. “‘s like, they dun’ always agree on stuff, but she sticks wid’em an’ all. Reminds me of y’all. Reminds me ‘m lucky.”

And Rick thinks, _fuck, I want to kiss him_. He feels his resolve to leave this crush of his alone crumble, he feels his face warm up and his fingers twitch, and his gaze slides up to Daryl’s lips parted on an exhale. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, it would be so easy to lean in closer and taste the lower lip he’s seen Daryl abuse so often with his teeth when he’s nervous. Damn, he has nice lips. Thin but still so expressive, more sensual than a man’s lips should be. Rick wants to find out what they’d feel like beneath his own. He wants to learn how to kiss Daryl, how to make him melt from just a kiss. He wants, and he can’t look away; and he’s pretty sure Daryl is watching him too, waiting-

The doorbell rings, but Rick almost doesn’t hear it, too transfixed with the way Daryl’s lips open and close as he forms words. But then, Daryl squeezes his arm and says, slightly bewildered and definitely confused:

“Rick? ‘s someone at the door,” and the spell finally breaks.

Rick sighs in what he’s sure is relief as all the silly thoughts about kissing fly out the window. He turns off the tap, pats Daryl on the arm and heads for the door. He fully expects to open it to Beth and Carl who must’ve forgotten their keys when they left in the morning with Shane. Who he finds on the other side of the door is a stranger, though.

He’s a man in his early thirties or maybe late twenties, hard to say for sure because he’s got an impressive growth of facial hair that makes him look vaguely like Jesus. His long hair is tied into a loose man bun. He’s shorter than Rick but he carries himself with confidence that more than makes up for his height. He’s dressed casually in jeans, a band t-shirt, and a dark cardigan. To be honest, he looks like a celebrity of some kind, not like a person who’s got any business being on Rick’s porch on a Saturday evening.

The man stares at Rick for a moment with wide blue eyes, then hands him a plate of cookies.

“Wow. Hello!” He greets. His voice sounds friendly if a little breathless. His smile is bright like a kid’s.

“Hello,” Rick replies politely. He looks at the man, at the cookies, then at the man again. “You don’t look like a girl scout.”

The stranger laughs like he’s genuinely amused at Rick’s terrible joke. “Ah, no,” he says a little awkwardly. “Sorry, should’ve started with this. My name’s Paul and I’m your new neighbor. Bought the house just across the street,” he motions behind him with his hand. “I know it’s a little late to be going around introducing myself, but you know how it is. Just couldn’t wait to meet the neighbors.”

Rick really doesn’t know. When he moved to Alexandria with his family, he spent the first week locked up in the house like some weirdo. Shane did all the grocery shopping for him back then. Only after that week, Rick gathered enough courage to go and introduce himself to the people next door. Tara and Denise were the perfect first choice: not too overbearing, incredibly accepting. He thought they were roommates back then. They didn’t set him straight for the next two months before they were convinced he wouldn’t shun them or react badly. Rick thinks the two are his best friends in the neighborhood, Tara especially. There’s just something he really likes about her. She reminds him of himself, back when he was in his Academy years, full of ideals and good intentions. It's a natural comparison, since she's trying to get into the programme. Rick doesn’t remember ever being that young, though. 

“Uh, I’m Rick. Rick Grimes,” he says and returns Paul’s firm handshake.

The man’s grin widens. “Well, it’s great to meet you, Rick! I won’t be bothering you longer tonight, sorry again for coming up this late. If you want to return the plate, or you know, get to know me better or anything, well, you know where to find me,” he says and winks.

Rick has the feeling he’s being flirted with. He’s not sure how to react. He smiles and says sheepishly, “Yeah, thanks for the cookies. I’m sure they’ll be great,” which is a total lie because the truth is he won’t even try the cookies. He’s going to throw them away. If there’s one thing he learned from the Evil Pizza Incident, it’s to never trust any food coming from anywhere else but his own kitchen.

“Oh, they’re not the only thing about me that’s great,” Paul says, then winces when he seems to realize how it sounded. “Shit, that was terrible. What I meant was-”

“I’m straight,” Rick blurts out.

Paul makes the funniest face at that: disbelieving, regretful and apologetic all at once. He lifts his hands as though in defense. Like he’s bracing himself for getting hit.  “Sorry! Didn’t mean to offend you or anything-”

“No, I’m not offended,” Rick says, shaking his head. He smiles the friendliest smile he can manage without looking like a psycho. “Flattered, actually. Huh. Well. Have a nice evening, man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you too. Uh. Like, I’m real sorry, okay? Hope we can still be like friends or, you know. I don’t have any friends around here yet, don't know how to start really. I’m kinda awkward with people,” Paul announces and Rick can’t help but chuckle.

“Well, you do lay it on a little thick with the flirting and all, you should work on that,” he admits. “Don’t worry. I’m really not angry or anything. You know what? Feel free to drop by tomorrow. At a _normal people_ time. You can meet my family.”

He likes the smile on Paul’s face at that. It’s sincere and hopeful. Maybe he can trust this guy. Not enough to try his cookies - especially when there’s a whole box of his own chocolate-heavy cookies on the kitchen counter - but enough to become the man’s friend. Everyone deserves a friend, after all.

They say good-byes and Rick watches Paul head back to the house across the street. He nods an acknowledgment when the man waves at him from his porch and then disappears through the door. Rick closes his door and returns to the kitchen. He catches Daryl’s questioning gaze as he dumps the whole batch of gift cookies into the bin.

“New neighbor. Guy looks kinda like Jesus. You’ll meet him tomorrow if you wanna,” he explains.

He’s got a good feeling about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got so much of this story pre-written already! I love this. I know exactly what is going to happen from now on and how.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions and assumptions are made, conclusions are reached.

Paul does indeed return on Sunday.  He rings the bell around lunch time and he gives Rick a giant, hopeful grin. With his hair down, he looks even more like some New Age, pretty-fied version of Jesus. He’s wielding an enormous bar of Toblerone nougat honey chocolate. 

“Okay, whoever you are, I tolerate you. You may stay,” Michonne decides. She appears behind Rick like a ghost, commandeering the sweet treat and disappearing back into the living room where she switches on the TV to watch Shark Week on Discovery Channel. She’s clearly not in the mood for human company today. She’ll accept the company of chocolate, though.

Rick laughs. “That’s Michonne. She’s easy to please, bring sweets and she’s your friend,” he explains to Paul and invites the man inside. 

He leads Paul to the kitchen where Daryl is feeding Judith some porridge with applesauce and banana mousse. The man is not very successful in the task. There’s currently more porridge on Judith’s forehead, her pretty dress with paw print, and on himself than there is in the little girl’s belly. That’s his own fault, Rick did warn him earlier not to give Jude any cookies before lunch, but Daryl’s about as good at denying her snacks as he is at cooking, meaning - not at all.

“So, this is our new neighbor, Paul,” Rick introduces when Daryl looks up, gaze flicking to the man he doesn’t know yet. “And these are Daryl and my daughter, Judith.”

Paul seems rather confused for a moment there. “You said you were straight,” he says, tone a little accusing, but he’s smiling a tiny smirk and his eyes are twinkling like he’s genuinely happy about the discovery he thinks he’s just made about his new neighbor.

Rick very valiantly tries not to blush as he makes a shushing noise, but of course Daryl’s already heard, the man’s got super-hearing like a bat or something. He’s not reacting, though, not beyond the initial tiny frown that Rick only caught because he’s a creeper and he can tell the man’s moods from the micro-expressions he makes.

“I  _ am _ straight, Daryl’s one of my best friends,” Rick says with a forced casualness to his tone, casting another glance at the man who’s currently licking his finger after wiping some applesauce from the corner of Judith’s mouth. 

Why do people keep assuming he and Daryl are a couple is still beyond him. It could’ve just as easily been Shane in here with Judith. It could’ve been Beth. He’s pretty sure nobody in their right mind would’ve thought he was dating  _ Beth _ . 

“‘m jus’ a homeless dude this guy picked up offa street,” Daryl announces, an amused edge to his tone. He’s giving Rick that not-smirk of his, the little shit.

One day, Rick’s going to kiss that pretty half-smirk off of the man’s face. See who’s gonna be laughing then.

“First, you’re not homeless anymore, and second, shut up and clean my daughter, she’s all sticky now because you can’t feed her right,” he snaps and throws a roll of paper towels at Daryl’s head. The man huffs a soft chuckle as he catches the towels easily. Rick rolls his eyes and looks at Paul who keeps glancing between the two of them like he’s trying to put together a puzzle. He tries to ignore the obvious doubt and disbelief in his new neighbor’s eyes. Let him think whatever he wants to think. Everyone else already does, so what’s the difference?

“Where are all the others?” Rick asks as he watches Daryl try to remove the porridge from Judith’s cheeks without letting the toddler bite off any pieces of the paper towel. It’s funny how she would gladly eat anything except for what she’s actually supposed to.

“Shane’s with Beth ‘n Carl in the backyard. Think they’s buildin’ sumthin’,” Daryl says, rolling his shoulders. Damn, his shoulders look amazing today, especially with the tattoo peeking out in the back. He should wear racerback tank tops more often. 

Rick definitely did  _ not _ just think that. 

He shows Paul to the backyard where predictably, they find Shane with the two teenagers. They’re standing around the picnic table Rick set out as soon as the weather became warm enough. On top of the table, there’s a big platform made of plaster. The trio are very busy building what looks to be a city out of various bits and pieces of wood, metal, plastic, and glass scattered on the chairs surrounding the table. 

“Woah, that’s so cool,” Paul announces. 

Carl looks up from the model of a house he’s working on and squints at the stranger a bit suspiciously. Rick can’t help but laugh because this look is so Daryl, it’s uncanny. Seems like both of his kids are starting to pick up mannerisms from the man: Judith the thumb sucking and Carl - this. Well, as long as they don’t start copying Daryl’s obvious distaste for proper English grammar, Rick’s fine with it. 

“Guys, this is Paul, the new neighbor across the street,” he introduces, then turns to Paul as he motions towards the others with his head. “The beefcake is Shane, my best friend. He’s a cop, so if you’re a criminal, you better come clean now,” he jokes. Shane flips him the bird, grinning as he nods an acknowledgment to Paul who gives him an appreciative once-over. Rick doesn’t bother informing him Shane’s straighter than a ruler. He’s pretty sure it’s obvious at first glance. 

“The lady is Beth and she’s very capable with a shotgun if you’d believe it,” Rick continues. Beth giggles and offers Paul an exaggerated, rather theatrical bow. 

“I’m Carl,” Carl informs before Rick has the chance to say anything, “and I’m this guy’s son. You don’t have to laugh at his jokes, you know. His ego can take it.”

“Are you dissing your old man again?” Rick asks, offended. 

“Yup,” Carl admits cheekily. “Now can you go away? You’re ruining my flow. I’m trying to be creative here, you know.”

“See, that’s what I have to deal with on daily basis,” Rick sighs, but he gives the building trio a wave and turns to go back to the house. 

Paul nods solemnly, following him. “Sounds like a hard life, man, I feel you,” he says, attempting to sound serious and sympathetic, but he can’t keep in the grin for much longer. 

Rick decides he kinda likes this man. 

Three weeks later, Shane taking Beth and Carl horse-riding has become a regular occurrence. Every week on Saturday, without fail, he shows up in his sedan to pick the kids up. After the first three times, Rick tries to ask him about the expenses because he’s pretty sure all that talk about the whole deal being a freebie from a grateful citizen is bullshit. He knows how much such things cost. Back when Carl was seven, he took riding lessons before he lost interest for a long while. It wasn’t cheap. But Shane doesn’t even want to talk about it.

“Even if it were costing me, and it’s not, I make more money than I can spend myself,” he says. “Come on, man, give me this. It’s not like I have kids of my own to spoil, right?”

So Rick relents, but only under the condition that Shane lets him repay the debt by coming to dinner every day instead of only occasionally. Rick can’t help it, he’s a greedy man; if he could convince all of his closest friends move into the house so he could keep him close, he would do it. Currently, Shane’s the only one who’s managed to avoid it. This can’t go on, but for now, Rick decides to go at it gradually. Dinners every day sound like a good start.

“Judith likes you for some reason,” he reasons in a teasing tone, knowing Shane, like everyone else in the whole wide world, isn’t capable of saying no when the little princess is concerned. 

“Yeah, your daughter’s easy. She likes everyone, even that hippie across the street,” Shane grumbles just to be difficult. 

“Why do you dislike that guy so much anyway?” Rick asks. Apparently, in spite of his genuinely bubbly, happy personality, Paul has managed to make an enemy of Rick’s best friend somehow. It’s so strange. Michonne and Daryl tolerate the guy just fine when he comes around every other day, Carl’s been calling him  _ cool _ since that time Paul set up the free self-defense course for the neighborhood because he’s apparently some kind of a ninja in addition to being a hippie Jesus with Goddamn flowers in his beard. Which Judith likes to put in there, by the way. She likes putting flowers everywhere lately. She’s making  _ Rick _ consider shaving these days.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Shane says. “Don’t know what - did a background check on the guy, it came out clean, but… Well. Can’t help but think it’s too clean. Isn’t that a strange coincidence the dude appeared right after you got poisoned?”

“You used to think Daryl was involved in that kidnapping incident back when,” Rick reminds him. Then his mind registers what Shane just said and he frowns. “What do you mean you did a background check? Isn’t that illegal?”

“It’s legal if it’s part of an ongoing investigation, you should know that. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten everything,” Shane says, rolling his eyes.

“You decided to get an innocent man involved in the investigation?” Rick asks, incredulous.

“Like I said, nothing came out, so I didn’t even put his name in the papers,” Shane replies, shrugging. “C’mon, don’t be difficult about this. We still haven’t found the guy who blackmailed the pizza place, though I showed Rhee your hippie Jesus’ photo and he said it ain’t him. Shit, we haven’t even tracked down any more info on that thug tried to take Judith. Whoever’s responsible, they’re good at covering their tracks.”

Rick knows this, but still doesn’t think any of it warrants full background checks on his neighbors just based on the fact they’re around. Paul hasn’t done a single thing that might put him under suspicion. After the first week, Rick even talked the others into letting him have some of the banana bread the man brought around. It wasn’t very good, actually, slightly burnt and a bit on the bland side, but nobody was poisoned, so that was a positive thing. Rick made his own banana bread on the very next day and Paul promised, upon tasting it, he wasn’t going to try his hand at making baked goods again. He hasn’t been coming empty-handed, though. He seems to own an endless supply of Swiss chocolate which he doesn’t mind sharing with Rick’s lot. Rick can’t help but wonder if the guy’s this sociable with the rest of the neighborhood.

“And anyway, I don’t get how you can like the dude so much. He’s been making eyes at Dixon so much, I’m getting jealous on your behalf,” Shane says. He’s smirking, but there’s something in his eyes that betrays he’s not really joking.

Rick regrets having ever told his best friend about his crush on Daryl. He’s been unbearable about it, though admittedly, he was much less rude about it, and definitely less surprised than Rick expected. Actually, he claimed he was not surprised at all.

In fact, he said: “Knew you were into dudes since you said you wanted to fuck Han Solo that one time we played  _ fuck marry kill _ at Lori’s birthday party. When was it? Sophomore year?”

“It was so I could marry Leia!” Rick protested vehemently. “The choice was Han Solo or Chewbacca, I wasn’t gonna fuck the Wookie! Besides, why the fuck do you even remember that?”

Shane went on like he didn’t hear him at all. “And you had this weird thing for that Bowie dude all through high school, didn’t you?” 

Rick did. Lori did, too. It made the  _ initial forays into sexual territory  _ part of their relationship very interesting, to say the least. He didn’t tell Shane any of that, though.

Right now, he wishes he never said anything at all because if he didn’t, Shane wouldn’t have pointed out Paul’s rather obvious interest in Daryl, and Rick would’ve been able to continue ignoring it. He’s got no right to be jealous. He can’t even begrudge Paul the attraction to Daryl because, God help him, he feels the same. Despite his rugged appearance, or maybe because of it, Daryl is incredibly alluring. It’s not just his eyes which make Rick forget about everything wrong with the world sometimes, and it’s not just the sinfully muscular arms Rick is envious of even more now that he’s started working out and realized he’s never going to look like  _ that _ . It’s not just the lips which have been curving around a smile more often lately. It’s not even the stupid beauty mark above Daryl’s upper lip that Rick somehow hadn’t noticed for the longest time, but couldn’t stop thinking about once he has. 

It’s the whole damn package, the things Daryl says and does. The way he is with Judith and Carl. The way he talks to Beth all soft but honest, no sugarcoating. The way he keeps Michonne silent company when she’s overwhelmed and needs someone to  _ not  _ talk to. How he butts heads with Shane over silly things, but it’s almost playful the way the two of them tend to bicker and hurl non-offensive words at each other pretending they’re actually slurs. It’s how he implicated himself into Rick’s life so non-invasively, like he was always supposed to be there, like there always existed a Daryl-shaped space in Rick’s family, just waiting to be filled. God, Rick could so easily fall in love with him.

But he won’t. He’s going to get over it and he’s not going to be jealous if his neighbor Paul-the-hippie-who-looks-like-Jesus manages to actually get into Daryl’s pants. It’s not like Rick wants the man that way. Even assuming Daryl was into men, was into  _ him _ , Rick couldn’t be with him physically, he’s sure. Male physique does nothing for him whatsoever. For fuck’s sake, he saw Daryl naked more than once. He washed the guy’s junk. If he was going to be hot for the dude, that would’ve done it, wouldn’t it?

He ignores his own mind supplying that there’s a  _ big  _ difference between helping an injured man and being naked with him in a sexual situation. He’s not going to start considering sexual situations with Daryl now. He’s tired of this back-and-forth with himself about this whole ordeal. He’s going about this the wrong way. 

He needs to find a woman. Plain and simple.

“Why the fuck d’you want to find a woman?” Shane asks, staring at him like Rick’s just grown a second head. “I don’t get you, man. You’re head over heels for the dude. And you’re not the only one who’s looking, you know? He’s looking at you just the same. Even I can see it.”

“Brother, I’m not into that,” Rick tries to explain. He feels like an awkward teenager again. He really should’ve picked a better time to go through an identity crisis like this. Thirty-seven is a bit old to be discovering his sexuality all over again, he reckons. “I mean, yeah, I’ve got a crush. But it’s just his personality I like, nothing else. I wouldn’t even know how to do it with a guy. Wouldn’t even want to,” he amends before Shane can comment. “And I bet Daryl’s straight. You’re just seeing things where there’s nothing to see.”

“Yep, that’s bullshit,” Shane informs him firmly. “He’s about as straight as your fucking girly curls. I’m telling you now, you’re gonna lose him if you don’t toughen up and act on it. That Paul character, he’s younger and prettier than you anyway. And he does the lumberjack look better.”

“Shut up. Don’t give me dating advice, asshole,” Rick snaps irritably. 

He leaves Shane there in the living room. On a whim, he decides to go to work out some frustration at the gym. He runs upstairs to his bedroom to grab the gym bag. As he’s heading through the hall to the stairs, he freezes because he hears Daryl’s voice in Judith’s bedroom. It’s unexpected because he thought Beth was with Judith this afternoon. Apparently not. The other reason he’s surprised is, Daryl is actually singing, a bit off-key, his voice too deep to carry the high notes. The lyrics are a little harder to tell because of the way Daryl pronounces words carelessly, but Rick still recognizes the song from one of the classic Disney princess movies they watched,  _ Snow White _ if he’s not mistaken:

“-W hen the prince of mah dreams comes ta me, he'll whisper  _ I love ya _ ‘n steal a kiss or two…”

Sneaking up closer to the door to Judith’s room, trying to remain as silent as possible, Rick hears that Judith is singing along, too, kind of. Or maybe talking along, babbling along more like, because she doesn’t seem to be very concerned about the melody. This should all make Rick laugh, it should seem hilarious, the fact that a manly and gruff dude such as Daryl is singing a princessy love song to amuse a little girl; but Rick’s mind is stuck on the lyrics, on how Daryl’s voice sounds when he forms the words  _ I love you _ and how easy it is to imagine the same words spoken in a hoarse whisper in a moment of passion, against Rick’s lips pressed to his own-

Rick drops the bag and flees, though he knows he can’t outrun his own stupid mind. He still tries to. He can’t go to the gym, though, he’d just keep thinking about stuff if he did because that’s what happens when he’s working out, and he really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want to think about stuff. So he sort of just wanders around in the park, thinking about stuff anyway since there doesn’t seem to be a way around it. It’s like a switch was flipped in his brain and Rick just can’t figure out how to turn it off.  

He thinks and thinks, and he walks. He thinks about Daryl’s scars he never talks about and the way he used to flinch whenever anybody touched him. He remembers how the man used to smoke, but hasn’t since that day he had a cigarette with Shane outside right before Rick got poisoned. He wonders,  _ does he think about me at all? Does he think about kissing me, or is he already planning the best way to disappear back into obscurity?  _ And what would he do if Daryl decides one day to leave the family Rick’s been so meticulously building around himself and his children? There’s nothing he could do that he believes would work; he could beg Daryl to stay, he could offer him money and food and all he’d ever want, but it’d be moot because in the end, Rick really doesn’t have anything to give the man. 

Everybody leaves at some point. Daryl will too, eventually. Loving him is pointless and Rick doesn’t want to. He went through the kind of heartbreak caused by somebody he loved leaving him. Lori is dead so it’s different, but Rick knows deep in his heart that if Daryl walks away, he’ll never be found again. In a way, it’s the same as being dead. 

He thinks about the first time he met Lori back in middle school. He decided at first sight he was going to marry her. It took until the high school sophomore year to convince her to give him a chance because before that, she considered him nothing but a friend. The best thing about their relationship was that this never really changed: while Lori eventually fell in love with him, she never stopped being Rick’s friend above all. It’s why they would’ve been alright even with the divorce. It’s why everything would’ve worked out if she didn’t die. It’s why Rick still misses her so fiercely almost two years later. He doesn’t remember much about being in love with her, beside some snippets like when she told him she was pregnant with Carl or that time they went to the lake together on a whim and almost got caught having sex on the public beach. What Rick does remember is staying up to comfort Lori after her father died after a long battle against cancer. It’s Lori driving him to the cat rescue center where they donated their entire saved up wedding fund in honor of the old family cat Freya who Rick’s mother called to tell him died that morning. It’s Rick participating in a topless photoshoot to earn some extra money so Lori could go with her friends to have a shopping spree while he stayed at home with Shane and watched Super Bowl in peace. It’s Lori getting two tickets to a random baseball game and absolutely refusing to be left behind, so Rick and Shane pretended to be a gay couple breaking up, making an absolute spectacle so Lori could sneak in while everyone was staring at them. 

They had fun together. They drank beer together, or wine if Lori was buying, and they talked about girls, because Lori was quite openly into girls as well as boys. They didn’t talk boys though, Rick was never into that before, much to Lori’s disappointment; he’s pretty sure Lori would laugh so hard at him right now. If she was alive, she’d be happy to listen to him rant about his feelings for Daryl, though, even if she’d tease him mercilessly for having been so stubborn. Also, she’d mock him forever for picking a homeless guy from the street as his first foray into gay romance. She’d be happy to give Rick advice on how to woo a man, and some of it would even be serious. Hell, she’d offer to watch gay porn with him so Rick wouldn’t have to suffer through the initial awkwardness of it all alone. She’d probably be more into it than him, too.

She was so full of contradictions, his Lori. At home with him she was this happy, free spirit, talkative and easygoing, open about everything she loved and everything she hated, and especially about what she wanted from life. Outside, though, when people could see her, Lori was distant and too concerned about what others thought of her, of her family, of the way she raised her child. She liked to be this confident, cocky person who acted like she didn’t give a shit, but in reality she was insecure sometimes, and the opinions of others mattered because they gave her reassurance. Rick didn’t like it about her back then, this duality, but he finds he actually misses some of that, too. 

Even when he was no longer in love with Lori, he still loved her so much.

“Wish you were here,” he says under his breath. He stops at the edge of the pond, watches some ducks swimming back and forth, and his mind finally settles down. 

It’s too late to worry about the what-ifs and how-tos of possibly being not-straight. It’s too late to go on freaking out about it, because no matter how much he’s been trying to deny it, Rick is already in love with Daryl and there’s no going back from this. Now he just has to do something about it before one of them ends up dead. Or worse yet, before Daryl decides the hippie Jesus is what he’s been waiting for all his life.

He’s going to finally kiss Daryl Dixon, and he’s not going to let anything get in his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my friend tells me she doesn't agree with my characterization of Lori. I thought I'd address it here.   
> Just like with Shane, I don't think Lori was a complete bitch before the apocalypse. She dealt with the end of the world the best way she could, she made bad decisions and she reacted badly to other people's decisions. She was intentionally written as a completely unlikable character. I don't want that here. Rick loved her, and my Rick loved her, and that's fine. Having loved her once does not make it impossible for him to fall in love again. One love does not invalidate another. So. That's why I decided to completely ignore the post-apocalypse characterization of Lori from the series.   
> (Fun fact: I tend to ignore the writing in the series a lot. Why should I take it into account if it's just plain bad? That's what fanfiction is for, after all.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick is unhappy. A kitchen appliance is destroyed. Rick and Michonne go see the ocean.

Rick didn’t think he could go from liking somebody to damn near hating them with a burning passion in less than a day, but it seems like there are still things about himself he can be surprised about.

He’s sitting in Judith’s room, watching as his little princess demolishes yet another tower of wooden blocks Beth has been building for her. The girls are both giggling, but Rick doesn’t share their happy mood at all. He sighs unhappily and tries to read the book Shane lent him, some new police action novel. It’s not very interesting in Rick’s opinion. Nothing is interesting if he’s honest with himself. Everything is bleak. Everything, frankly speaking, sucks.

And the reason for all of his suffering is simple: Daryl’s out having lunch with Paul.

It shouldn’t even make him so grumpy, it’s just lunch at the diner a couple of streets away, nothing more suggestive than that. But it’s _Daryl_ with _Paul,_  and Daryl’s not a guy who likes to go out places, he’s happiest at home with the family or possibly, if he has to be outside, he’d prefer walking in the park with Jude. Not having lunch with a guy he randomly met a few days before. Even if the guy is pretty as a picture and just too fucking nice, and keeps looking at Rick strangely whenever Rick interacts with Daryl in front of him like even _he_ can see right through the straight façade Rick’s been very half-hearted in keeping up. Damn beautiful bastard hippie Jesus, getting everything Rick wants without even trying.

It wouldn’t have happened if he actually _fucking_ kissed Daryl Dixon when he damn well planned to, but no. He chickened out. He returned from his soul-searching walk in the park slash gay panic attack, found Daryl curled up on the living room couch with a comic book about zombies Carl’s been trying to get everyone to read - and he didn’t do anything about it. Said _goodnight_ and went upstairs. Like a fool. And now Daryl’s having lunch with Jesus.

“You’re seething again, Rick,” Beth informs him, throwing a wooden block at him. The letter imprinted on its wall is _F_ . Like _failure_ or _fuck_ or _fghjsflkfadjsgjksgfkjsgjkgsf._ It’s very fitting.

“Am not. I’m fine,” Rick announces in a high pitch which totally doesn’t sound like he’s about to snap.

“Uh-huh,” Beth hums, nodding. “You’re just as pissy as Mr. Walsh was last Saturday when Carl decided to go to Patrick’s birthday party instead of riding with us. Maybe more, if I’m being honest. I think I know what’s bothering you, but if you’d like to talk about it-”

“I don’t,” Rick interrupts. “I never should’ve talked about it to anyone in the first place. It’s so stupid, I got stupid, and now I’m gonna have to watch the person I’m in love with slip right out of my grasp because of that Goddamn hippie…”

He trails off when he notices the way Beth’s eyes widen. So it seems she didn’t actually know what was bothering Rick. Funny. He was sure his crush on Daryl was already common knowledge within this household, the way everyone's been giving him a hard time about it. Then again, Beth’s father is a deeply religious man. It’s possible she’s just not conditioned to jump to conclusions about romance when it comes to two men. Or she’s simply not a dick like Michonne, Shane, and Carl.

“Um. You know that Daryl thinks you’re with Michonne, right?” Beth asks. She throws Judith’s Lion King-print ball to Rick who catches it. His little daughter runs to him and Rick catches her before she can collide with him with all the force of a tiny freight train.

“Asked me if I knew anything about it, but he didn’t listen to me saying it’s not like that at all with the two of you.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Rick asks, letting Judith barely touch the ball before he throws it back to Beth. He watches the toddler run back to the teenager, giggling happily.

“Well, imagine being in his position. He saw what he thought was you being happy with an amazing woman you so obviously love, and he believed there was no chance in hell you’d choose him over Michonne. And then there’s this handsome, obviously gay neighbor making eyes at him, so when the guy asks him out, he agrees because why wouldn’t he?” Beth shrugs her lithe shoulders. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s like that. To be honest, it’s probably not. Knowing Daryl, he never even realized Paul was asking him out on a date.”

Rick bristles a little at the words. He doesn’t want to think about this lunch thing as a date, thanks very much.

“By the way, how are you all so fine with this… with me liking him that way?” He asks to change the subject slightly.

“Can’t speak for the others,” Beth says, smirking, “but I think it’s really cute. It’s like a rom-com. Only I think in a rom-com, you’d’ve been a woman. Or he, I guess. They don’t really make a lot of gay romantic comedies in Hollywood, I guess.”

“He’d make one ugly woman,” Rick muses and it actually improves his mood a little when Beth laughs.

She’s been doing so much better here in Alexandria. She smiles more often, laughs and even sings sometimes, to Judith but also just to herself when she’s making food or doing the dishes, carefree and young as she should be. When she speaks to her daddy on the phone, she no longer has the haunted look to her eyes, and she’s actually excited when she talks about her day and asks about the life on the Greene farm.

She’s wearing short sleeves again, too. They all know better than to stare at the scars on her wrists and most of the time, Beth seems to forget they are even there.

“I thought about going back to school in September,” she says, letting Judith climb all over her sitting form in an attempt to get to the ball she’s holding high above her head.

Rick smiles. “That can be arranged. Here or back in Georgia?”

“Would it be much trouble if I tried to apply to some schools around here? I miss daddy and everyone, but… I feel like I’m a better version of me when I’m here,” Beth says. She drops the ball which bounces around the room. Jude chases it, squealing loudly.

“It’s no trouble at all. You’re among family here, too. This is your home for as long as you want it,” Rick promises. “I can take you to see the places we’ve got around if you wanna. Can also ask around the neighborhood for recommendations.”

“Thank you,” Beth whispers and Rick can see the gratefulness in her face, the relief. He squeezes Beth’s shoulder in reassurance and chuckles when she hugs him fiercely.

Daryl returns from the lunch at half past one, meaning it only took about forty minutes. He doesn’t act any different than he normally would. He’s brought a bag of fresh peaches along which he hands to Rick in the kitchen. Each fruit has a sticker on it, proclaiming proudly how they originate from King County, Georgia.

“Thought ya could make pie,” he says. “Can help ya.”

Rick nods, beaming, and looks up recipes for peach pie. He settles on one and enlists Daryl’s help to assist with skinning the fruit and removing the pits. Daryl’s not in the least bit shy about licking his fingers off the sweet juice which poses a little bit of a problem for Rick’s ability to concentrate on mixing the dough. He has to throw away a batch because he pours salt instead of sugar into the mix, and he blushes when Daryl all but laughs at him.

“Finally found yer weakness ‘n the kitchen,” the man says, looking proud of himself.

“Didn’t know you were searching,” Rick replies, shaking his head. “Would’ve told you I’m absolutely shit at preparing venison. And possibly at French cuisine. Snails, man.”

“Ya gotta learn,” Daryl announces, “venison I mean. ‘m gon’ go huntin’ one a’ these days an’ brin’ back a buck or sumthin’. Ya gotta know how to cook it right.”

“Oh no,” Rick protests. “You’re not killing Bambi. Can you imagine what Jude would think?”

“She gun' go that ’s yummy food, ‘s long ya cook it right,” Daryl insists and flicks a pit at Rick. It hits him right in the beard, leaving it wet and sticky with thick peach juice. Then, as if in slow motion, the pit drops straight into the second batch of dough right as Rick is putting the mixer inside to stir some more cream in it because it’s too thick.

Needless to say, it’s a disaster. The mixer gives a powerful lurch as the arms of the stirrers warp on the hard pit, and the two men can only watch, eyes wide open, as the bowl with the dough flies out of Rick’s arms, spilling the contents everywhere. The sudden movement makes Rick drop the mixer, which hits the counter heavily and stops working.

“... no pie, then?” Daryl asks, smirking. Rick hits him with a peach half, but he’s already laughing even before his projectile hits the target. Just like that, all the tension that ever existed between the two of them, even if only in Rick's mind, is gone.

That evening, when Daryl is upstairs tucking Judith in for the night, Michonne drags Ric to the garden. She sits him on the bench and paces in front of him, restless. Rick can’t help but worry: is it the time already? But she hasn’t been here even a month. He’s not ready to let her go yet.

Michonne seems to understand what he’s thinking. She looks at him and cups his cheek. “I’m not going away, darling,” she promises. “It’s not that. It’s definitely not that.”

“What is it, then?” Rick asks, wrapping his fingers around Michonne’s wrist. He can feel her hand trembling.

“Shane asked me out today,” Michonne says.

Rick waits. Then: “It’s not why you’re scared,” he guesses because he knows her too well. Michonne isn't afraid of anyone, least of all a big, dumb man who likes her.

She shakes her head, bites her lip nervously. “No. It’s… It’s my daughter’s birthday tomorrow.”

Rick understands. He pulls Michonne closer until her hip aligns with his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist, holding her as she tries to keep her emotion under control. Rick doesn’t tell her she doesn’t need to. If Michonne wants to let go, she will. He doesn’t suppose it’s going to happen, though; no, this is as close to emotional as Michonne will let herself be in front of anyone.

Elodie was three when she died of leukemia. The type she had was a death sentence no matter what, no amount of transfusions or marrow transplants could’ve saved her. It’s not that her daughter died so young that has Michonne dread every anniversary. It’s that she wasn’t by Elodie’s side in her final days. She was on a mission when she received the news. It was her last mission with the spec ops. Afterward, she became a marrow donor and eventually saved Carl’s life.  

“I can’t even put flowers on her grave,” Michonne whispers. Her ex never forgave her for being away when their daughter was dying. He didn’t tell her where their child was buried. Didn’t think she deserved to know. She could’ve sued, forced him legally to tell her. She didn’t. She also didn’t believe she deserved it.

“I can find it for you,” Rick offers softly. “I can have Shane look.”

“No,” Michonne protests, “don’t. Just… Take me somewhere nice tomorrow? Somewhere with a view. A lake, or somewhere in the woods. I think she’d prefer somewhere nice like that to a gloomy graveyard, anyway.”

Rick smiles into Michonne’s side. “Yep, I can do that. I know just the place.”

On the next morning, Rick sends Carl off to one of his final days of school with Daryl trailing along; the man still refuses to let Carl go by himself, but it’s alright because Carl’s friends think Daryl is the coolest dude ever. Beth promises to take good care of Judith for the day, so Rick isn’t too worried once he and Michonne hit the road. It’s a three-hour drive. He’s worried for a moment it’s going to be a silent affair, but Michonne’s actually in high spirits.

“Decided to give the bag of dicks a chance,” she says, drawing a peal of startled laughter from Rick. “What? He’s cute when he’s not posturing. You should’ve seen him pouting when Cat hissed at him the other day. Dude looked all sorts of betrayed.”

“He doesn’t get why everyone likes Daryl more than him,” Rick admits. “He’s a good guy, though. Thick-headed sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

Michonne hums. “I know,” she says. “How come he’s still single?”

Rick sighs. “He’s got no idea how to act around women, I guess. He’s perfectly wired to be a friend, but women aren’t usually looking for friends. They’re looking for partners. I suppose there’s a distinction there,” he shrugs. He hopes what he’s saying doesn’t come out misogynistic. He doesn’t mean it like that, he’s just not very good with words.

“Yeah, I guess,” Michonne agrees. “Why can’t it be both, though?” She wonders out loud. “Look at you and me. We’re friends, I think, closer than friends. Soulmates? My God, that’s so cheesy,” she laughs in a bout of self-deprecation. “Still, I think that’s it. I think we’d be great together. As a couple. We could be, couldn’t we?”

“We could be,” Rick says, smiling. God, he loves Michonne. It’s no revelation, it’s not a new thought. Just confirmation. He’s always known he loved her, from the moment she saved his son’s life thirteen years ago.

“But we won’t be,” Michonne adds. It’s not regretful or wistful, just a simple observation. Rick is sure in the right set of circumstances, the two of them could easily be in love. But not in this world, not in this reality. They’re way past that. They’re way more than that.

“Shane is a good guy,” Rick repeats, absent-minded.

Michonne nods. “I hope he’s patient enough,” she says. “I hope he’s not disappointed.”

“He used to be in love with my wife,” Rick confesses. He consults the GPS briefly, adjusts the journey plan when he remembers a shortcut. He goes on: “He used to be head over heels with Lori. She let him down easy, told him she’d always choose me. I thought he wouldn’t accept it. I was worried he’d hold a grudge. But he didn’t. He came to me, apologized, told me everything. Said it didn’t change anything for him. And it changed nothing for me, either, so we just hugged it out and maybe cried a few manly tears. You know how that is.”

Michonne laughs. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“He never mentioned it again, but after Lori died… He told me for a while there, he hoped when we got the divorce, maybe he’d had a chance. He waited so many years for her, Michi., even though she was there in Georgia and he was here in Virginia. Believe me, he’s patient,” Rick says and covers Michonne’s hand with his own.

She grins. “You’re saying I’m going on a date with a dude who’s still holding a candle for your dead wife, Grimes?” She asks playfully. “You’re trying to deter me or something?”

“Oh, come on! Give him a break. I’m pretty sure he's very much over it after two years. Besides, I’ve seen the puppy eyes he keeps making at you. You’ve already got him wrapped around your little finger.”

“Like Daryl’s got you?” Michonne asks, wagging an eyebrow. Rick flips her the bird.

For the next few miles, they tell silly, embarrassing stories about other people. Michonne tells him about one time she went with Daryl and Judith to the park where the man wanted to check if the swing seat was comfortable enough for the princess, so he sat on it and the whole construction gave in and broke down under his weight. Rick repays her with an anecdote about Shane’s allergy to garlic which he discovered the hard way when a crazy chick he was dating got adventurous and used garlic butter for lube. They both laugh themselves silly at the recollection of Carl’s fifth birthday when the boy claimed he was going to become a priest because girls were gross and priests didn’t have to kiss anyone.

Michonne smiles fondly, looking through the windscreen. “I think I’m gonna try staying for good this time,” she says thoughtfully.

Rick squeezes her hand. “You know I’d be happy to have you forever.”

She nods. “Can’t promise you forever, cowboy. I might become sick of you yet. Especially if you keep growing this thing on your face. Anyone tell you-you're starting to look like Santa?”

“Didn’t you know? It’s a fashion trend. Girls dig the lumberjack appearance.”

“Yeah, Daryl likes it too,” Michonne teases and Rick rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the blush he knows is spreading across his face. Daryl did say there wasn’t anything wrong with the beard. Rick remembers it in vivid detail. It’s a good thing his mind is very capable of multitasking, so he’s able to keep most of his attention on the road. He’d never live it down if he lost control of the car just because he was daydreaming about Daryl running fingers through his beard.

It’d feel so nice, though.

Eventually, they arrive at the destination. It doesn’t look like much, just a completely deserted parking lot right at the edge of the woods. Rick leaves the car there, takes Michonne by the hand and leads there down a beaten trail. The trek isn’t long before they can hear the noise like a loud hum. Michonne recognizes it almost instantly as the crashing of the waves.

“You took me to the ocean?” She asks incredulously and runs the few feet ahead to where the trees clear and the wild sandy beach spreads out in front of them, wide and bright and empty except for the seagulls flying overhead.

“I thought you’d like it here,” Rick says, smiling even though he’s not sure if he didn’t miss the mark.

But then Michonne smiles back, grateful as her eyes fill with tears, and Rick knows he chose well. She’s the most beautiful Rick’s ever seen her as she runs towards the shore, losing her shoes along the way. Chuckling fondly, Rick follows her, picks the shoes up so they’re not lost in the sand forever. He laughs uncontrollably when Michonne squeals and curses a stream at the coldness of the waves when they wash over her feet almost up to her knees.

“What the hell did you expect in early June?” He asks and Michonne kicks a bunch of water and mud at him, sticking her tongue out. “Oh yes, very mature!”

“Up your ass, Grimes!” Michonne tells him, grinning.

Seeing her so carefree, Rick can’t help but grin right back at her. He kicks off his own shoes, takes off his socks and lets the waves hit his feet. He lets out a very undignified sound and retreats to a safe distance because the water is _fucking cold_ and he is _not_ going to freeze his toes off, no way. He sits on the sand instead and watches Michonne as she runs along the shore and chases the waves. The wind is gentle today, the smell of saltwater and fish fills Rick’s lungs, and he thinks he’d like to bring the rest of the family here one day. He can imagine Beth, Carl, and little Judith running after Michonne along the coast, all of them screaming and giggling as the cold waves sweep them off their feet. He can see Shane calling after them not to get too far into the water, worried but also amused at their antics. He can also see Daryl, building a bonfire not far away from the shore so that they could roast some fish and s’mores, and sit around the fire until the dead of night, telling stories and singing songs. Smiling at the daydream, Rick promises himself he will bring them all here soon. The summer’s about to start after all. They all deserve a family vacation.

Before they leave, Michonne picks some flowers in the forest. They’re wild ugly things, more grass than flower, but the way she arranges them into a bouquet makes them look somewhat pretty. Rick builds a mound in the sand and Michonne sets the flowers on top of it. They don’t speak, but Rick thinks he knows what Michonne is thinking. He holds her hand as they look into the waves together. He pretends he doesn’t hear her sobbing and she pretends she doesn’t know he hears.

Back in the car, Michonne squeezes his hand again in a silent _thank you_ and gives him a piece of sea glass she found. It’s the exact same color as Daryl’s eyes. Rick kisses her on the forehead and drives them safely home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter.  
> Did you like reading it? Tell me in a comment! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There be motorcycles.

The garage Aaron Raleigh owns is a stuff of legends. It used to be located in Atlanta up until some ten years ago when the owner packed up his stuff and moved the whole thing up to the much friendlier suburbs of Alexandria, Virginia. The most loyal customers actually followed him despite the almost ten-hour drive and all the state lines between the old location and the new one. It’s because there is hardly a mechanic as well-versed in motorcycles this side of the continent as Aaron Raleigh. The guy’s worked for Harley-Davidson for a few years since he was a kid, expanding on his natural talent, then he moved on to work for Triumph where he spent another two years. He also had some time with the Japanese manufacturers, including an entire year’s scholarship with Kawasaki in Tokyo. At twenty-three, he opened the garage in Atlanta under his own name and brand while still working in affiliation with Triumph, then he moved the shop to Alexandria two years later as a fully independent brand. At thirty-five, he’s featured in the top publications for the industry and people call him a magician with engines. The BMW custom one-offs he designed sold for triple their market value during last year’s expo in Berlin. There are rumors going about that he’s currently working on his own custom lines for  _ both _ Triumph and Harley-Davidson. They’re expected to sell out within hours once they go up for sale. There are already WTB posts all over the collector forums for those bikes. 

It’s difficult to believe all of this when looking at the likable dork, though.

“I see you’re still rocking the lumberjack look,” the man greets Rick with a giant grin. If Rick didn’t know him, he wouldn’t believe this guy’s just two years younger than him. He looks like he could be in college. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make fun of you. I’m not much better!”

He’s not much better, indeed. He’s sporting a rather hipster-like beard himself. It’s new. He used to be clean shaven most of the time. 

“You know how it is. With a baby at home, there’s hardly time to do anything, so shaving’s not really my top priority,” Aaron explains, smiling fondly. 

He looks at Daryl, but doesn’t say a word, like he’s waiting to be introduced but won’t force it. Daryl looks back at him from where he stands behind Rick with a rather uninviting scowl on his face like almost every time he’s out somewhere with strangers. Hopefully he’s also like that when on his semi-regular  _ stupid  _ lunches with Paul because Rick doesn’t want to imagine Daryl actually smiling or, God forbid, laughing, when in the bastard pretty Jesus’ company. It’s unfair.

Rick can tell Daryl is curious in spite of himself, though, no matter how hard he’s trying not to show it. The man chose being here over yet another lunch with Paul because Rick, desperate to keep him to himself just this once, promised him motorcycles. And oh boy did he deliver. There are multiple bikes on display at the garage, mostly restored stuff for sale, and there are some at various stages of work being done on them, including what looks like an older version of a H-D Fatboy with gold plating and a two-piece tank. A truly unusual custom, one Rick wouldn’t mind looking more closely at in spite of knowing very little about motorcycles. He can barely tell a chopper from a cruiser, that’s how little he knows. He’s just in it for the cool factor. Always has been. 

“How’s Eric? I bet he envies you, you get to come out here eight hours a day,” he says, teasing Aaron in good humor. 

It’s the worst kept secret in the industry that the main reason Aaron moved his business so far up north was the discrimination he faced with his partner down in Georgia. Homosexuality is still a big deal down in the south, even in the big city where everybody should’ve learned to mind their own business. The garage in Atlanta was hit with its share of vandalism, from juvenile things like egging and offensive graffiti to more serious stuff like property damage and death threats scribbled on walls. Rick was one of the cops assigned to the investigation when three motorcycles were set on fire inside the property. He was the only one who took it seriously back then. He never found out who was the perpetrator, but Aaron thanked him for caring anyway. It made Rick feel real bad about the situation. He shouldn’t have been the only one doing his job. He shouldn’t have been the only one trying to help just because the victim was gay. 

It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t miss the force. He still thinks they should’ve all left their opinions at their homes before going out to help people. It was their Goddamn job after all. Stupid Georgia.

“To be honest, it’s me who envies him,” Aaron laughs, but it sounds wistful. “He gets to watch Gracie grow up while I keep missing all the important milestones. Did you know she’s growing teeth now? She’s got three already, isn’t that amazing? Those tiny little teeth!”

“Oh, I can imagine. She probably bites everything she can reach,” Rick says, laughing as well, one father to another. He knows this from experience. Judith hasn’t outgrown the biter phase yet. 

“You have no idea. We have to be extra careful, eyes around our heads twenty-four-seven. Eric caught her trying to chew on a dead sparrow in the backyard last week. It traumatized him for life,” Aaron says and shakes his head like he’s the one who’s traumatized. Rick can totally sympathize with that.    
“Yeah, wait until she starts digging for earthworms,” he warns because he still remembers that.

Daryl chuckles at that, apparently unable to keep up his gruff demeanor when there’s talk about babies afloat. “Lil’ Ass-kicker knows where to get ‘er proteins alright,” he jokes and he sounds proud rather than disgusted. Of course, this is a man who used to live starving on the streets, so maybe he does have a point. There are worse things one could eat than earthworms, probably, when the hunger is just too strong.

“Ah, yes. Aaron, meet Daryl,” Rick introduces. He doesn’t add any explanation about who Daryl is to him and who he isn’t because he’s not sure what to say. Call Daryl a friend? Sounds too impersonal. Family? Not precise enough and really, it would just sound fake. Boyfriend? Hah, he wishes; as of yet, Daryl’s status is still woefully un-kissed and Rick’s ashamed of himself about it. In the introductions, he just settles for  _ Daryl _ . He manages not to add a possessive  _ he’s mine _ , and he’ll forever be embarrassed about how close a call it was. 

If Aaron comes to his own conclusions, he doesn’t let it show. “Why hello, Daryl! Now, I couldn’t help but notice, you were looking at that Triumph in a very particular way. You know what model it is?”

Daryl snorts like the question is almost insultingly easy. “‘s a two thousand thirteen Thunderbird Storm, ain’t it? ‘s got the twin headlights ‘n all. Though the exhaust looks modified.”

“Yeah, good catch. It was fractured so I subtracted some length from it. What about that one?” Aaron points at a bike by the wall. 

Daryl approaches it and squints down at it. “Easy. ‘s a four-stroke Husqvarna Enduro. FE three-fifty or four-fifty, can’t tell ya without a look inside. ‘nless ya can tell me the weight?”

“It’s a four-fifty alright,” Aaron supplies, grinning. “The owner’s thinking of replacing it with a five-oh-one, but I’ve been trying to talk him out of it.”

“Yah, makes no sense ‘nless he a pro,” Daryl agrees. “Weight difference’s almost naught ‘n engine’s practically the same. Waste a’ money, I reckon, only worth it ‘f yer real pro. on the track This one ain’t, ‘cuz them tires ‘r original issue an’ bike‘s basic version, no mods. Lookin’ pretty amateur to me.”

Aaron beams at him, nodding like Daryl’s reading his mind. He points to another machine. “And that one? I mean, sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not a quiz, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, just wondering if you can recognize it.”

But Daryl doesn’t seem to mind. He ignores the man’s apologies because he’s already looking curiously at the third motorcycle. His eyebrows knit together like he’s confused. “Well damn. The frame looks like a Triumph Roadster, mark two ‘r maybe three, but ‘s got yer typical BMW tank. Piping’s from a sports type though, Yamaha perhaps? No, Kawasaki or Suzuki, either one, the rear shape ain’t right for Yamaha. And would ya look at that headlight, ain’t that jus’ like ‘em vintage Harley-Davidsons? The fuck’s this hybrid, man?”

“An experiment,” Aaron says and chuckles. “A pet project, if you please. I’ve been buying wreckages, salvaging what I can, and putting the parts on this baby. I’m on a lookout for an undamaged fuel injection system but no luck so far. I’m afraid I might have to give up and buy one new. Or finally sit down and design my own.”

Daryl looks impressed. He runs a hand over the handlebars of the bike, a brief expression of longing visible clearly on his face before he schools it back into his more usual grimace. It’s extremely kissable. It also reminds Rick why he’s brought the man here in the first place.

“So, Aaron, how’s my girl doing?” He asks. 

Aaron winks. “Oh, she’s pretty as always. I’m getting offers on her every other day, you know that? People can tell she’s special. Come on, she’s at the back if you want to look.”

They go to the back of the garage and Rick immediately recognizes his custom one-off Super Glide FXE even though he hasn’t been here to check on the motorcycle in over a year. It’s such an oversight! He lives literally a twenty-minute walk away. But, well. Aaron’s kept it in a beautiful condition, polished to a most appealing shine, no speck nor scratch on any surface. Rick gently strokes the seat of the bike like he would pet a cat, muttering  _ good girl _ under his breath. 

“It yers?” Daryl asks. His voice is deeper in wonder. It makes Rick shiver just a little. 

“Yeah. Been mine for years, it’s the one Shane’s told y’all about. But I thought it’s time she became somebody else’s,” Rick says.

Aaron frowns. “You want to sell her?” He asks, incredulous. His eyes immediately turn calculating, like he’s considering how much to offer for the bike.

Rick shakes his head and looks up at Daryl. “What do you think? I know she’s vintage so it’s probably not the same standard you’re used to, she’s not as fast as the newer models, but I thought you could appreciate her anyway-”

“Rick, no,” Daryl mutters, eyes wide in shock. “Can’t accept it. C’mon. Yer crazy.” 

“Don’t be like that,” Rick says and valiantly  _ doesn’t  _ kiss him in front of Aaron, God and everyone else who might be looking, even though he’s absolutely itching to just grab him by the front of the shirt and pull him in to devour those pretty lips like a starving man. “Believe me, I’ve been paying more to have her stored here for the last ten-plus years than she’s worth. It’s time someone put her to some use. What good’s a motorcycle if nobody rides it? You can treat it as a loan if it makes you feel better.”

“Yer so fuckin’ stubborn,” Daryl mutters, looking away, but his eyes wander back to the motorcycle like he can’t help it. His hands twitch like he wants to touch but won’t let himself. 

“Ya sure ‘bout this? Ya sure ya wan’ me t’ ride yer bike?” He asks, looking back at Rick again. 

“Yep,” Rick tells him firmly. He doesn’t say,  _ You deserve to have nice things and I intend to give them to you _ , or  _ The thought of you riding my Goddamn bike gives me a warm happy feeling like a Disney movie _ , or even  _ God, you’re so fucking beautiful _ . He just smiles and hopes none of his thoughts are visible in his expression because that would be very embarrassing. 

“‘m gon’ pay ya back one day,” Daryl promises softly. There’s so much warmth in his pretty steely-blue eyes it’s almost unbearable. Rick wants to kiss him so much, so fiercely, it hurts. He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s such a damn coward.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says instead and pats the man’s shoulder. It’s not enough, it does nothing to sate his urge to touch every piece of Daryl he can get his hands on, but he forces himself to stop thinking about what he wants and start thinking about what Daryl needs. He doesn’t know what he wants, anyway. He thought kissing was the only thing, he thought that was the extent of his newfound homosexuality, but apparently not. This is rapidly encroaching on new, dangerous territories. Rick’s brain needs a time-out.

“Uh, just out of curiosity, are you maybe looking for a job?” Aaron asks, addressing Daryl gingerly. 

The man frowns and looks at Rick, eyes questioning like he’s not going to answer without knowing his opinion. Rick nods in reassurance, more to let him know he’s okay whatever Daryl chooses to say than anything.

Daryl nods. “Might be,” he says. 

“Well, why don’t you try working for me?” Aaron offers. “Listen, I realize it’s sudden, I’ve got no idea who you are or even if you’re really qualified, but well. You know your machines. What you don’t know, I bet I can teach you. Thing is, I’m a little desperate. I’ve been trying to recruit employees forever, but it hasn’t exactly worked out. You’re the only one who passed the initial test, actually.”

“What, the lil’ quiz back there?” Daryl asks, lifting an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

“Yeah, that. Can you believe it? I’ve had some idiots claiming to be qualified mechanics with actual degrees who couldn’t even tell a regular Thunderbird from a Thunderbird Storm,” Aaron sighs. 

“Them’s idiots a’ight,” Daryl says, “those two bikes looks nuthin’ alike. ‘s like comparin’ this FXE to them two thousand Super Glides.”

The two go on for another twenty minutes, both getting increasingly worked up about the ignorance of  _ some people _ who actually have other priorities in life than motorcycles. Rick lost them at the Thunderbirds he’s pretty sure he couldn’t tell apart, but he doesn’t mind. It’s actually a rare treat to see Daryl this animated about a subject. It’s funny, but in the nearly two months they’ve known each other, Rick hasn’t had a chance to learn a lot about Daryl’s hobbies and interests from before. Just that the guy likes motorcycles and used to go hunting with a crossbow sometimes. He doubts babysitting Judy and helping Carl with homework really qualify, even if Daryl seems to enjoy himself immensely with the kids. 

In the end, Aaron decides to hire Daryl for a trial period starting next Monday. They agree to complete all paperwork when Daryl comes in for his first day. Aaron looks incredibly excited about this. He doesn’t even mind that Daryl doesn’t have an ID.

“Man, it’s fine, I’ve got lawyers, they’ll sort out all the legal stuff for you. I’ll finally get to spend more time at home with Eric and Gracie,” he says, grinning like a madman, “of course it’s worth the hassle!”

If Rick thought the height of happiness for the day was already behind him, he’s proven wrong when he hands the keys to the motorcycle to Daryl and he watches as the man takes the Harley for a ride. The rumble of the engine accompanies Rick all the way as he walks back in the direction of home. Daryl goes in circles around the neighborhood, returns to Rick’s side before going off again, and Rick can’t help but beam at him, the man’s obvious joy making him feel stupidly in love. Because, God. Daryl looks beautiful like this, long hair wild as he speeds along the street without a helmet, hands firmly on the handlebars, pose relaxed like he’s in his natural environment. He’s the epitome of freedom, a wild spirit, something Rick could never hope to capture - and would never even want to. 

He’s a damn old-school romantic and he can’t help it.

Rick’s back home before Daryl, but he honestly didn’t expect the man to leave the bike so soon, so he doesn’t mind. He starts preparing dinner, humming a tune to himself that’s definitely not a Disney princess song, when Carl comes downstairs. 

“Can I invite some friends over on my birthday?” He asks, taking a seat at the table and picking up Cat. The old tomcat stretches in his lap, licks Carl’s ear and purrs. 

“Yes, of course,” Rick agrees immediately. “Actually, I was planning to talk to you about that. Didn’t know what you’d rather have. I heard kids prefer stuff like renting out restaurants these days.”

“Nah,” Carl shakes his head. “Waste of money. Your cooking’s better than any restaurant,” he shrugs. “I’ll just get a few friends over, you can make us tacos and we’ll play some games on the console.”

“Doesn’t sound too exciting.”

Carl rolls his eyes. “Not everything has to be exciting. By the way, you think Shane’s going to be around? And Michonne? Beth already said she’s not going anywhere and I think it’d take a horde of zombies to keep Daryl away from us…”

“We’re all going to be there for you on your birthday, if you’ll have us,” Rick promises. 

His son shrugs again. “Don’t want to be trouble. Just thought it’d be nice, you know? We could have a movie night after my friends leave. With popcorn and stuff. Cookies maybe? The chocolate chip ones were good. Maybe we could watch something you normally wouldn’t let me. Like zombie movies?”

He’s got a thing for zombies now. It’s apparently some new trend with teenagers lately. Some popular comic book got turned into a TV series and everyone’s flipping their shit or something. Kids have morbid taste in entertainment, it turns out.

“We can do that,” Rick agrees and goes to the calendar to write in a reminder to bake cookies. The roar of the motorcycle comes closer and then fades away in the distance again. Rick chuckles, shaking his head fondly. Seems like Daryl can’t get enough of his new toy.

“That’s Daryl?” Carl asks. 

Rick hums an affirmative and pours chopped tomatoes into the frying pan. They’re from his garden, the first crop ever, picked up this morning. They’re not fully ripe yet, somewhat green in places, but he’s an impatient man sometimes. He’s been waiting on these for a long time. “Wanna pass me some cheese? It should be on the top shelf in the fridge.”

“The vegan one, right?” Carl grabs the cheese and hands it to him. 

“I think we’re all out of dairy-based cheese, to be honest. I’ll have to put it on the shopping list. Daryl can go shopping tomorrow,” Rick says. “He’s going to have to if he wants those burgers he made me promise you guys.”

“Dad, are you really in love with Daryl?” Carl asks seriously.

Rick freezes. He looks back at his son who’s studying him with an unreadable expression on his face. Somehow, Rick completely forgot to talk to his son about all of this. About his big gay crisis. He told Michonne, he told Shane, heck, even Beth knows, but Carl’s remained oblivious. Well, apparently not. His son’s observant, and Rick is suddenly afraid. What if Carl’s against it? What if Carl hates him? Not only for liking a guy, but for liking anyone who isn’t his dead mother? Would Carl feel like Rick’s betraying Lori’s memory? Would he-

“Jesus, dad, chill,” Carl says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t look so terrified. It’s just a question. I’m fine with it either way, not gonna judge you.”

“You’re not?” Rick asks, needing the reassurance.

“Nah, of course not. I’ve got gay friends, you think you’re so special? I mean I’m friends with  _ Jesus _ ,” Carl shakes his head, and isn’t it funny that Paul’s widely-accepted nickname around the neighborhood is apparently what Rick’s been calling him in his head all this time? Without the  _ Goddamn man-stealing bastard hippie  _ part, but still. Everyone sees it: guy looks like Jesus.

“It’s normal, dad, nobody cares about sexuality, gender or shit anymore.”

“Language,” Rick says automatically.

Carl frowns. “Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to,” he says and drops a quarter in the swear jar that’s almost full, then signs his name on the list. The majority of the change in the jar is from Shane who still hasn’t learned to hold his tongue, though he’s been getting better at it lately. They’re collecting the money for the Halloween fund. Carl will get to spend it on all the candy it can buy and he’s going to be able to keep half of the haul for himself and his friends, provided that his own contribution is proven less than ten percent of the contents of the jar. That’s what the list is for. 

“Anyway, you know what I mean. It doesn’t matter at all. If you’re gay, I mean.”

“I’m not, though,” Rick protests softly. He attempts to cut the cheese into cubes of the same size. It’s not going too well. “I still like women. I just like Daryl, too, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Carl says.

“Okay?”

“Yes, dad. It’s okay. Just do me a favor and don’t kiss him in front of me. It’s not personal, told the same thing to Shane about Michonne. Old people kissing is gross,” Carl teases. 

“Don’t let Michi hear you say that. She’ll skewer you on a stick and roast you like a marshmallow,” Rick warns playfully, pointedly  _ not  _ thinking about kissing Daryl because it reminds him about how much of a loser he is. 

The motorcycle rumbles closer once again and then the roar of the engine dies down. Rick looks out the window.

“Take over for me,” he motions Carl to the frying pan. “Add the other stuff there, the order doesn’t matter. If you mess up, it’s fine, we’ll just make something else.”

He goes outside to the front yard and smiles at Daryl who scrambles off the bike, posture completely relaxed and expression open. Before Rick can say anything like  _ let’s put it in the garage  _ or  _ fuck you’re so sexy _ , strong arms wrap around him and he’s brought close against Daryl’s broad chest in an unexpected hug. 

“Thanks,” Daryl mutters into his neck. 

Rick doesn’t know what to do, he’s too confused and his brain isn’t working right, so he simply brings his arms around Daryl, tangles a hand in the man’s hair and hugs back. 

It's the best hug of his entire life. It’s almost as good as a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone here thinks I know the first thing about motorcycles, then... they're a tiny bit not wrong. I love motorcycles and I do a lot of research about them while saving up for my first. I'm sorry if something in this story makes no sense whatsoever, though. I'm just a very enthusiastic beginner who takes most of her knowledge off of motorbike-related forums.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gift shopping trip with Carol, part one!

There aren’t all that many activities Rick can still enjoy with his sister as an adult, especially since between her job, family and charity work, Carol is an extremely busy woman. He still misses doing stuff with her, though, even though it’s been so long since they were kids.

As children, they liked to spend time together riding horses, playing baseball and running around in the woods around the ranch. Things like  _ boys  _ and  _ girls  _ weren’t exactly important at the time, not when Carol was the best damn slingshot shooter in the county and Rick knew how to repair a torn dress so well Carol’s mama wouldn’t notice the damage at first glance. They had a treehouse right by the old orchard, Rick’s dad helped them build it. Rick can still remember regularly running away from home to that treehouse, together with Carol, when they were mad at their parents for silly things kids always get mad about, like being made to clean up their rooms or being told they had no need for a new cassette recorder because the old one was still perfectly functional. Of course, their parents knew where to find them, but never came to get them. It worked out better like that. This way, Rick and Carol were able to get over whatever it was they were angry about and their parents had the house to themselves for however many hours. Everybody won.

Overall, Rick reckons he had a great childhood and a great relationship with his sister who, like him, never really minded that they weren’t blood-related and their parents got married when they were both six years old. They leaped easily from being only children to favorite siblings, like it was the most natural thing for them to do. They’re still close when they’re both almost forty. They can’t really go hide from the world in a treehouse together anymore since adulthood doesn’t seem to work that way, but there are some things they are able to do and mostly enjoy.

Shopping for gifts around a week before Carl’s birthday is one such thing. It’s been their tradition for the last thirteen years. Every year they clear their schedules for the second Saturday of June and they meet up somewhere convenient for the both of them. Since Rick’s move to Virginia, over nine hours drive away from where his sister lives, the  _ somewhere convenient _ has relocated to the shopping centers in Alexandria on account of Carol having easy access to flights pretty much whenever she pleases. There are certain benefits to being married to one Ezekiel King. Besides being a great guy if somewhat scary, Ezekiel happens to be the owner of the Kingdom Airlines, the third biggest air carrier company in the United States. 

Really, Rick is lucky to have that guy as a brother-in-law for more reasons than one, but he appreciates the rich-airline-owner side of him a lot, especially because that’s literally the only way Carol can still keep in contact with him that often. She was able to come to see him all the time when he was sick after the Evil Pizza Incident thanks to that. Admittedly, she did drive when Rick asked her to come to see to Daryl, but that was because it was an emergency. She made the trip in less than seven hours at that time. She probably wasn’t caught by the police only because they couldn’t keep up with her driving speed. Rick’s still a bit scared when he lets himself think about it. 

Carol is set out to land in half an hour at the Reagan National airport. It’s about a twenty-minute drive from Rick’s place, so he’s getting ready to leave when Daryl comes out of the kitchen where he was helping to feed Judith. His expression is troubled. He looks at Rick, squinting, and asks:

“Where’s ya goin’ now?”

Rick tells him, but it doesn’t seem to help with Daryl’s unease. The man keeps staring at Rick like he wants to say something and isn’t sure he’s allowed to. Finally, he shakes his head and mutters, “‘s not safe,” and he looks away. 

Rick blinks. “How do you mean?”

“Ya know,” Daryl says. When Rick doesn’t necessarily look like he knows anything, the man rolls his eyes and elaborates, “Them’s sons a’ bitches tryin’ ta kill ya, they’s not caught yet. Ya shouldn’t go out alone, ’s all.”

“Alright,” Rick agrees and finishes putting on his boots. “Come with me, then.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, come with me. Carol likes you and anyway, don’t you need work clothes for the garage? Plus I’m sure you must be getting fed up with the brands of shampoo and stuff I use, so we can get you your own.”

“Ain’t got no cash yet,” Daryl protests.

“Oh, whatever, you know I’ve got plenty,” Rick says dismissively. “Way I see things, I should be paying you for all the stuff you do around the house.”

He really thinks he should. Not only are his children well taken care of thanks to Daryl being there whenever it’s needed, but also the man has proven to have a talent for doing repairs around the house. He managed to revive the damn mixer they broke during the peach pie attempts, for example, and also he unplugged the drain in the kitchen, unstuck the garage door, replaced the LCD panel in Carl’s laptop and even got rid of the strange whistling noise in the engine of Shane’s sedan. Each time he fixed something, he claimed it was no big deal. Maybe Rick would believe him if he didn’t know for fact how much Shane had already spent on fruitless diagnostics with no mechanic being any the wiser. The guy’s a magician. It’s really ridiculous that someone so talented ended up homeless when in Rick’s opinion, employers should have lined up to offer him a job. Aaron’s just as lucky to land him at the garage as Daryl is to be hired there. Daryl’s a goddamn miracle worker.

He’s also still not been kissed by Rick, which is frankly a tragedy.

“What yer doin’ for me, I ain’t gon’ forget it, Rick. ‘m gon’ pay ya back one day, all of it,” Daryl promises earnestly. His eyes are so intense, Rick feels he might be drowning so he makes sure to study the door lock instead. 

“Let’s just go, man,” he mumbles, “Carol’s gonna kill me if we’re not there to pick her up.”

The drive is exactly as short and uneventful as Rick could’ve predicted, although it is admittedly more pleasant with Daryl coming along if only because Rick can watch him from the corner of his eye at the red light on the intersection. Nobody tries to shoot Rick, drive the car off the road or even throw poisoned pizza slices his way when they wait at the parking lot. Of course, Rick doesn’t dismiss Daryl’s concern for his safety completely, he’d have to be a really stupid man not to appreciate the danger he’s probably in. The number of incidents befalling his family since Lori’s death is too high to be coincidental, and anyway, there’s no coincidental way to blackmail somebody to put poison on pizza. It’s apparently being taken so seriously, the investigation’s no longer in the hands of the local police department. Shane’s been bitching about  _ those damned feds _ for days, and if the FBI are getting involved, Rick agrees there’s definitely something fishy going on. So, of course, Daryl’s right to be worried.

Rick just doesn’t know how Daryl’s presence could help if there was a new attempt at his life. If anything, it would make things worse because Rick couldn’t possibly forgive himself if anything bad happened to Daryl. So he’d likely put himself in the line of fire or whatever, to make sure Daryl isn’t harmed. He’s hopeless like this. It’s not even just the  _ in love _ thing, Rick would just as easily sacrifice himself for Michonne, Shane, and probably even that man-stealing hippie bastard Paul. 

He shrugs it off as something not worth dwelling on for now. Anyway, Carol looks absolutely delighted at the sight of Daryl. The man accepts her overly enthusiastic greeting of  _ Hello there, Pookie, you’ve become even more handsome than the last time I’d seen you!  _ with an embarrassed nod and a shy almost-smile that makes him appear so much younger. Rick’s not jealous or anything. He gets his fair share of those not-really-smiles, too, especially lately when Daryl’s so obviously happy with how his life’s turned out. He’s got no right to want all of them to himself.

By the way, now that he thinks about it, Carol’s right. Daryl’s looking better with each passing day; the bruises and cuts are long gone from his face which has also lost its gaunt appearance now that the man is enjoying regular meals and sleeps right every night. He’s filling the clothes Rick bought for him much better, too. And there’s a softness in him that didn’t use to be there before, a change Rick attributes to all the time Daryl spends with the children at home who simply adore him. He’s no longer so sharp around the edges, he doesn’t glare at everyone and expect them to hurt him. 

Carol gives Rick a knowing look, shaking her head in fond exasperation before she gets in the backseat of the car. 

The agenda for the day is pretty much to visit all the shops that pick their interest and hopefully acquire presents for all the upcoming birthdays. There’s Carl’s next Saturday, then Sophia’s four days after that. Lizzie, one of Carol’s adoptive daughters, has her birthday on the last day of June. Henry, her oldest adopted son, is going to be sixteen in mid-July. August is Judith’s birthday month and, finally, Rick’s own birthday is at the beginning of September. Summer is always a very busy time for Rick’s family. 

“When’s your birthday, Pookie?” Carol asks Daryl when they get out of the car in front of the Mall of Alexandria, the first shopping center in their busy schedule.

“Dunno,” Daryl mutters, blushing as he looks down at his feet. “Sumtime ‘n winter, m’think.”

“Awww, a winter baby! Just like my Mika. Did you know winter babies are the cuddliest?” Carol says, poking him in the arm. Daryl doesn’t flinch like he would if it were Shane or even Michonne touching him, he just glares, but it seems more playful than heartfelt.

Okay, Rick  _ is _ jealous. A tiny bit. 

It’s so annoying because he’s envious that way about everyone who’s got any kind of positive interaction with Daryl at any damn moment. He’s jealous of his sister right now, and of course, there’s always Paul the friendly neighborhood hippie, then earlier he hated Michonne’s easy camaraderie with Daryl, and even envied Carl’s close-knit relationship with the man. Yes, Rick’s finding out that he’s the kind of person capable of being jealous of his own son. He’s definitely seeing a problem in this picture.

“How many children d’ya even have, woman,” Daryl says, rolling his eyes fondly. It’s worded as a question, but it sounds more like a statement of exasperation.

Rick grumbles, “All of them,” and Carol flicks him in the ear. 

They proceed to the shopping center, Rick at the front, Carol and Daryl behind him. The two of them’s arms are linked like they’re honest to God the best friends ever, or maybe man and wife; and it grits on Rick’s nerves not only because he’s a jealous prick, but also because Carol knows Rick is jealous and does it deliberately. She’s been conditioned from a young age to recognize all kinds of emotion in Rick, like every six-months-older sister in the world, so that she could win against him in any confrontation. She’s retained that ability and isn’t beyond using it still.

Daryl, for his part, seems completely oblivious to the precarious hostage-like situation he’s in. Rick reckons it’s fine, more than fine even, since it indicates that maybe the man hasn’t caught on to this unfortunate crush ordeal or is very good at pretending he hasn’t. Rick really doesn’t want to consider what would happen if Daryl suddenly found out and didn’t like it, but he’s pretty sure it would involve a fist to the jaw, possibly some insults and, doubtlessly, the man leaving forever. 

Rick’s going to have to keep a tighter lid on this attraction if he doesn’t want it to blow up in his face, though the idea of hiding it becomes less and less appealing with each passing day of wanting to do unspeakable things to the unfortunate object of his desires. Or alternatively - hopefully - he’ll just finally find the balls to kiss Daryl and deal with the fallout. Which may be scary and horrible, but at least he’ll know what it feels like to touch those lips with his own.

“Let’s start with the electronics store,” Carol says. “I bet we can find something nice for Carl in there. He still plays on the console all the time?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Naw, ain’t gon’ work. Boy wants a motorbike, but ‘s too young. Ridin’ stuff’s next best thin’ I reckon. Loves ‘em horses.”

“Shane’s been taking him and Beth horse-riding,” Rick explains to Carol’s surprised expression. He hums thoughtfully. “Daryl’s right, equipment for horse riding sounds like a safe bet. Also, Carl’s too young for a real motorcycle, but maybe he’d appreciate a model? To be honest, I’m trying to get him interested in stuff. He’s always playing with Jude, I don’t know, doesn’t seem healthy for a kid his age…”

“Dunno,” Daryl says. “Boy’s fond a’ his sister. ‘s a good thin’ I reckon. Still. Model’s a good idea? They’s gots that big city thing they buildin’ in the garage with Beth an’ Walsh. Or ya could buy ‘im a helmet. S’ I could take ‘im on rides sometimes. If yer fine with that.”

Rick smiles at the man. “Sure I’m fine with that,” he says because there is very little he wouldn’t agree to where Daryl’s concerned. He trusts the man with the safety of his boy no problem. He knows Daryl wouldn’t ever do anything careless to endanger either of the kids. And he remembers riding at the back of his father’s old motorcycle when he was ten. If it was safe enough for him when he was even younger, it’s surely not risky enough not to allow Daryl to do something both he and Carl would doubtless enjoy. 

They go into the electronics store anyway because the plan is to visit every store they can until their legs give out. It’s like a game of chicken every year. Both Rick and Carol will keep going well into the evening hours, neither willing to back down; and tomorrow, both of them will be too exhausted to get out of their respective beds. Still, they’re only just beginning and it turns out the store is not a bad idea after all: Rick decides Daryl needs a mobile phone.

“Whatever the hell for d’ I need it?” Daryl asks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion when Rick browses the available models of smartphones on display. 

“What do you mean, what for? To call us when you’re on lunch break at work. Tell us about your day. And what if Judy misses you? She’ll want to hear your voice when you’re not there,” Rick explains patiently. He doesn’t say  _ he  _ is going to miss the man and want to hear his voice because that’s just too cheesy and anyway, there’s no way to interpret it as anything but a romantic overture so he’s better off keeping it to himself. For now. He’s got no business making a pass when Carol’s around with that knowing smile and the dangerous glint in her eye. Eventually, though. For sure. 

“Could jus’ call the landline?” Daryl mutters dubiously.

Rick scoffs. “Come on, I’m buying you a mobile. Pick one,” he demands.

Daryl immediately points at the cheapest one which was, of course, completely predictable and also unacceptable. Rick rolls his eyes, ignores Daryl’s choice and selects the latest WalkerPhone which is advertised as their sturdiest and most functional phone to date. He supposes sturdy would come in handy for someone working in a garage and riding a motorcycle every day. 

Although a bit later, in the food court during the first intermission in their busy day, watching Daryl frown in confusion at the smartphone’s simplest features, Rick reckons he should’ve just bought a model for seniors instead. It’s adorable, the way the man fumbles with the phone and the way he huffs impatiently when something doesn’t work the way he expected it to. And okay, Rick used to be exactly the same way at the beginning of his smartphone adventure, but that doesn’t mean he can’t laugh a little and appreciate the situation. It’s not like there’s anyone here who can tell Daryl about how Rick had the same problems and frustrations in the past. 

“‘s not funny, Grimes,” the man grumbles softly and chucks a fry at Rick who has the unbelievable luck to catch it with his mouth. To fix it, Daryl throws another which lands in Rick’s beard this time. 

“It’s a bit funny, Pookie,” Carol says, looking up from her own phone she’s likely been texting the husband and army of kids on. “Haven’t you used one before? It’s not very different between brands.”

“D’ they have a brand for homeless dudes an’ nobody’s told me ‘bout it?” Daryl snaps. 

Rick doesn’t want him to be pissy. He prefers the adorably frustrated mood. To remedy the situation, he picks the phone from Daryl’s hand, leans in closer to the man and begins showing him the basic features, reckoning maybe it’s going to be easier for to figure it all out if he’s shown how it functions, not told. Rick’s got a very similar model to this one, so he has no trouble finding how to do stuff even though he can literally feel Daryl’s warmth through the cloth of his shirt and smell the peppermint on the man’s breath. 

“Ain’t there jus’ like a call button? So’s I can call y’all an’ shit without doin’ all this stuff?” Daryl asks. “Can’t bother to remember all ‘s crap all the time.”

“Okay, look. I’ve made you a shortcut here,” Rick shows him the button on the screen. “You tap it, it’ll show you the list of contacts. I’ve added some for you. They’re all labeled so you shouldn’t have a problem with who’s who. To make the call, just tap a contact from the list. Or you can send a text if you tap here. Sometimes you’re going to prefer that to calling.”

Daryl bites his lip and nods. Rick gives him the phone back and, as if to check if everything works like he said it would, Daryl selects Rick’s number and calls it. He lifts the phone to his ear and looks expectantly at Rick. Feeling his own phone vibrate in the pocket of his jeans, Rick retrieves it and, smirking, accepts the call.

“Hello?” He says, and he would wince at the way his voice went low and almost seductive right now if he weren’t feeling so bold all of a sudden. He can always blame it on a sugar high later. He did just have two helpings of apple pie with a side of vanilla ice cream.

“Hi, Rick,” Daryl replies. The double assault of his deep voice in the receiver and in real life next to him makes Rick have very impure thoughts indeed; and when Daryl looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded and darker than usual, Rick wonders if he’s not actually just dreaming all of this up. But as soon as he came, the flirty Daryl is gone within a blink of an eye, replaced by a grumpy version who quickly ends the call. A faint but visible blush spreads all over his face and neck as he looks at the table and puts some distance between Rick and himself.

“‘s workin’,” he mutters and puts the phone carelessly inside the pocket of his jacket. 

Well if that’s any indication of how well the man takes to anything even remotely flirtatious, Rick’s pretty sure he’s doomed to have his heart broken. With a sigh, he shakes his head and pretends it’s all in good humor. He catches Carol’s piercing eyes; she’s watching him like she knows exactly what’s going on and she doesn’t approve. Rick’s right there with her. If it were up to him, Daryl wouldn’t be trying to pretend he doesn’t exist right now; in fact, he’d be very enthusiastically and vigorously making out. With Rick. In front of everyone. Possibly naked, or at least shirtless. Wow, no, okay, maybe not. Daryl shirtless should definitely be a sight reserved for Rick’s eyes only. 

“Gotta piss,” Daryl mumbles and all but runs away. There goes that daydream. 

With a sigh, Rick reaches for the leftover fries. He feels Carol’s gaze on him still, searching for a confirmation of the theory she’s already formed in her mind without a doubt. It’s probably the correct theory, too. Her ability to read Rick’s moods is terrifyingly accurate, like he’s an open book to her. She was the first person to know when he fell in love with Lori, even though he never got around to telling her. What Rick’s feeling now… Well, it must be pretty obvious to Carol, too. 

Finally, his sister can’t keep quiet anymore. She says, “God, you men are so foolish sometimes,” and she rolls her eyes.

“What do you mean?” Rick asks in a deceptively polite tone. He’s just resigned inside.

“Come on, Rick, you can’t be that dumb! From the looks you both are giving each other, you boys should be banging like rabbits in spring. What went wrong? Did you offend him somehow?” 

“Why'd you have to assume I did something wrong?” Rick complains unhappily.

“You’re right, that’s unfair,” Carol admits, not really apologetic. “So what happened?”

“Nothing happened! That’s precisely the problem,” Rick says, and then the dam breaks and the words come in a flood. “I thought about kissing him one time, but we were interrupted, and then there was never a good occasion, and he’s been seeing this other guy from the neighborhood. Well not  _ seeing _ him, I don’t think, he’d tell me if he was really dating hippie Jesus, but they have lunch together like four times a week and it’s driving me crazy. And the worst thing is everyone’s telling me to man up and just do it, but I’m scared because what if Daryl’s not interested in men? Or worse, what if he is and he’s just not interested in  _ me _ ? I mean-”

“He looks at you like he’s never seen anything more precious in his life,” Carol interrupts, covering his hand that’s not greasy from the fries with her own smaller one. “Believe me, he’s interested in you. I’m sure he’s also at least just as scared as you are. But it’s worth trying, isn’t it? At least to see if you both feel the same?”

“I don’t want him to leave,” Rick whispers. “If I go for it, if I drive him away and we all lose him, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Carol looks like she wants to say something, maybe call him silly or reassure him, but she doesn’t say anything because Daryl returns at that moment. He takes the same seat next to Rick as earlier. It’s a good sign, so Rick forces a smile which turns into a surprised frown when Daryl hands him a small paper envelope.

“What’s this?” Rick asks, already opening the envelope. Inside is a magnet in the shape of a motorcycle with a rider. There’s an inscription which reads  _ Live fast, die never _ . It's pretty badass, even in spite of the fact that it's pink and glittery. 

“Saw it in a store on the way. Thought ‘s a good one. For the fridge,” Daryl says softly.

When Rick beams at him, the wide smile is completely genuine this time. Daryl offers his own little not-smile in return. The temporary weirdness between them is completely gone in an instant, no trace of it left whatsoever. They’re fine.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping, continued. Rick is illogical.

They keep walking and visiting shops of different varieties until suddenly it’s seven-thirty in the evening and Rick is, frankly speaking, exhausted. He’s only still capable of standing upright out of sheer stubbornness. Carol doesn’t seem to fare much better, demanding longer and longer breaks each time they pass a bench or a restroom. Damn, they’re getting old. Daryl, on the other hand, appears just as chipper and energetic as he was at the beginning of the day, and that’s despite the fact he’s been forced to act as the siblings’ pack mule. He sincerely doesn’t seem to mind the multiple bags and boxes he’s carrying like they’re weightless in between rounds to the car and back. It makes Rick wonder how strong the man really is and gives him a moment of respite when he sports a very inappropriate fantasy of being swept off his feet, quite literally, and into Daryl’s strong arms. The fantasy doesn’t seem complete without a billowy dress and flowing hair. Rick’s mind seems very adamant to apply both of these elements to Daryl’s broad figure for some reason. The Rick in this entirely unwelcome and sort of weird vision’s wearing pants at least, but he’s got a pretty flower crown on his head and tiny white flowers in his beard. It’s all so stupid. Rick blames it on tiredness.

The only person allowed to wear dresses in this relationship is Judith, and that’s final. Daryl would look ridiculous in any kind of dress. Kind of sexy, maybe, because of the shoulders some dress cuts could accentuate, but still definitely ridiculous.

“Will I hafta carry ya home ‘s well?” Daryl asks when Carol’s taking yet another opportunity to cheat by hiding in the restroom.

Rick wonders if Daryl’s developed the ability to read his mind. He’s not sure he likes the idea because his thoughts have been taking some rather wild turns as of late. There tends to be a lot of what Rick dubs affectionately as _shoulder porn_ among them. It would probably work out better between them if Daryl didn’t have access to any of that, especially if the way he got spooked by a tiny flirtatious moment is any indication of how he’d react to Rick thinking about him this way.

Luckily, no such thing as mind-reading actually exists in the real world.

“No carrying required,” Rick promises, offering Daryl a brave smile. “Although you may have to drive the truck. I’m not sure letting me behind the wheel would be very ethical tonight.”

Daryl chuckles. “An’ as we all know, I’m a man of ethics,” he says, amused. He’s been growing steadily more self-confident and talkative over the course of the day, like watching Rick and Carol’s adventures in competitive shopping has given him some kind of a mood boost. He’s even let both siblings buy stuff for him with only some token resistance and minimal grumbling about not being a charity case. He now officially owns more black shirts than Rick does tops in any color. He’s also turned out to look incredibly good in black jeans. Too good, in fact. Rick’s sanity might be affected.

“And anyway, if you really had to carry me, the neighbors could see. Wouldn’t want to step on any toes,” Rick adds, shrugging in feigned indifference while in fact he’s feeling very bold.

Daryl frowns, confused. “Dun’ getcha. What’s that got ta do with yer neighbors?”

“Well, not all neighbors. Just Paul,” Rick supplies helpfully. “Wouldn’t he get jealous?”

“Yea, maybe he might,” Daryl agrees, “but ya prob’ly got it wrong way ‘round. Guy‘s not interested in me or anythin’.”

Well that’s new. “What?”

“Seriously, ‘s not. Been friendly, ‘s all. Won’t shut up ‘bout ya, actually, ‘s why ‘s been takin’ me for lunch so often. Waxin’ poetic ‘bout yer eyes, for one thin’. Tryin’ to pry ‘em anecdotes with food an’ all. Told ‘im ya cook better anyway, but dude’s been kinda persistent.”

Now it’s Rick who’s confused. First of all, no way. No way he’s been jealous all this time over a guy who’s not even into Daryl. Also, _please_ , he’s not blind, he’s seen the way Paul tends to look at Daryl. And at Shane, sometimes. Like he’s hardly ever managed to find a sight that good before. Come to think of it, he might’ve seen Paul look at him in a similar way, too, though that was more at the beginning of their acquaintance, before the lunches and all. Still. Damn, has he mistaken simple aesthetic appreciation for something deeper? Has he been hating the guy for no reason after all?

If so, it’s probably Shane’s fault, all of it.

Then again… It’s a bit worrisome if what Daryl’s saying is true, that Paul wants to know more about Rick, and that he’s so eager to obtain the information that he’s trying to bribe someone close to Rick to get it. Yeah, it would make sense if he’s interested in Rick romantically for whatever reason, but what if that’s not it? Suddenly, Shane’s warnings that there’s something suspicious about the new neighbor don’t seem all that paranoid anymore. Maybe there is indeed an ulterior motive in the way Paul is acting all harmless and friendly. His entire too-nice-to-be-real hippie Jesus persona might just be fake, and he might be behind all the dangerous stuff threatening Rick and his family. It’s weird that Rick doesn’t get any bad vibes off the guy, like his ingrained cop instincts can’t pick up anything sinister; like his gut feeling doesn’t work anymore after being dormant for so long.

“Ain’t told ‘im nuthin’ important ‘bout ya,” Daryl assures him softly. “But, Rick, Paul ain’t an evil guy or anythin’, ‘kay? Think he ain’t got nuthin’ ta do with that pizza crap an’ all.”

“What if he has, though?” Rick asks. “I invited him into our home, Daryl, God, what if he’s dangerous and I just invited him in without a second thought?”

“Ain’t dangerous,” Daryl repeats firmly. He bites his bottom lip, looking down at his hands, then adds, “think ‘s just into ya, ‘s all. Likes ya. Yer family too. Ya know that.”

Rick thinks about it, but it doesn’t make a lot of sense. He told Paul he’s straight. There is absolutely no reason for the young and handsome neighbor to get so hung up on an allegedly straight dude with a wildman beard and a weird obsession with a homeless man he literally picked up off the street. Really, no matter which way Rick looks at it, the assumption that Paul likes him like that instead of wanting Daryl seems like a downgrade for Paul. Why would anyone even look at Rick’s best caveman impression when there’s Daryl in the same room with his shoulders and his pretty stormy-blue eyes, and that kissable not-smile he likes to pretend is not there?

Still, Rick senses a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to finally settle some doubts once and for all. A sure-fire way to know. A chance to find out what he needs without getting punched in the face for his effort.

Acting very much like a protagonist in a young adult novel Beth might enjoy reading in her spare time, the kind of protagonist who decides knowing if their love interest likes them back is more important than surviving another day in the face of mortal peril, he looks Daryl in the face and asks:

“And are you alright with it? I mean. Say, it’s like you said and he’s really into me. If I were into him too. Would it bother you?”

And Rick totally doesn’t expect the way Daryl’s eyes narrow and his voice sounds pissed off and downright _hateful_ when the man says, “Yea,” and it hits him all the harder for how completely unprepared he was for it. It’s almost enough to make him flinch.

He didn’t really give enough thought to the eventuality of Daryl either liking or not liking men before when all of this was firmly in the realm of imagination and a very far-off _one day_ . Yeah, he wondered, but it was just all so vague. He kept focusing on whether _he_ was interested, very carefully avoiding pondering on whether Daryl would be equipped to return that interest at all. Now, he is suddenly acutely aware that the man he’s in love with is probably not only not gay, but also possibly homophobic. At least that’s how he understands Daryl’s anger. And he’s not ignorantly homophobic in the way Shane usually is, either, the _I don’t get it, please don’t be gay in front of me and we’re all going to be fine_ way Shane goes about the issue; that was real conviction in Daryl’s voice just now. Like he actually takes personal offense in the fact a man might be interested romantically in another man.

Rick supposes he’s lucky he hadn’t found the courage to kiss Daryl after all. He might’ve really ended up a few teeth short if he tried that. He should’ve predicted this possibility, he should’ve put the puzzle pieces together; he should've learned back in Georgia, he knows how some people down South are still quite violently against gay people: he saw it first hand with Aaron. So it’s not that much of a stretch to assume the man who’s basically a backwoods redneck according to what Shane said a long time ago, is actually a gay-hating bigot. If the shoe fits...

Rick is stumped into silence for a while. He doesn’t get to say anything or react in any way to Daryl’s admission anyway, because Carol returns from the restroom, eyes weary even as she smiles brightly and announces:

“We’re going to have to cut this outing short. Zeke expects me on the nine PM flight.”

Which is her way of saying _I’m too tired to go on, but there’s no way I’m admitting defeat to the likes of you_. Rick decides he’s not going to argue because frankly, he’s dead on his feet as well and anyway, he’s got a lot of thinking to do. He feels heartbroken, for one; despite his persistent cowardice, he really was holding out hope that he’d get to kiss Daryl one day. Now that’s gone and died in a ditch. If Daryl hates the thought of another guy liking Rick that way - a situation without any direct consequences to him - then he’d probably go raving mad finding out Rick wanted him all along.

A tiny voice in Rick’s mind whispers, _What if he doesn’t hate that Paul’s gay in general? What if what he hates is Paul being gay for me? What if he’s just jealous?_

Rick compels himself not to entertain the thought. He can’t afford this right now, no matter how tempting it is to imagine the scenario, because he doesn’t want to set himself up for another disappointment when he’s this tired and likely to get emotional like a teenager dumped by her first boyfriend. God, why did he have to ask? Why did they even start talking about Paul all of a sudden? He was so stupid. He should’ve left the topic alone.

It’s lucky Rick can use his tiredness as an excuse to get Daryl to drive. He probably would’ve crashed the car on the way to the airport to drop Carol off if he were behind the wheel, so distracted he is with the relentless, nagging thoughts. He hardly even notices when Carol is gone, though he does seem to recall hugging her goodbye and wishing her a good flight before she gets picked up at the airport by her son Henry.

Daryl looks at him from the corner of his eye all throughout the short drive home. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, like he knows what’s going on in Rick’s head yet again. When they arrive in front of the house and Daryl parks the truck in the driveway, Rick attempts to escape that attentive, steely-blue gaze, but the door won’t budge. He frowns.

“Let me out,” he demands.

Daryl shakes his head. “Not ‘til ya tell me wha’s gotten inta ya all offa sudden.”

“Nothing,” Rick lies through gritted teeth. “I’m tired, just wanna go to sleep. May I?”

“Yer actin’ weird,” Daryl protests. “Fuck, shouldn’ta told ya nuthin’,” he mutters. “Yer gon’ be weird with me now all the time, Grimes? Why the fuck didya wanna know ‘f ‘s gon’ bother ya so much knowin’, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rick says, and okay, his voice is too loud even in his ears. He’s not shouting, not yet, but he feels he’s about to. He doesn’t want to, he knows he’s acting irrational, getting angry over this, getting angry over his damn _broken heart_ and letting his temper get the better of him, but he can’t help it. He’s just so exhausted.

“Ya know what? Fine,” Daryl decides and releases the automatic lock on the door. “Go the fuck ta sleep. Maybe ya can talks like a normal person in the mornin’.”

“Fine,” Rick snaps and all but flees from his company.

He all but runs to the house and he doesn’t look back to see if Daryl’s following. He doesn’t even care about all the purchased stuff he’s left in the car. He just heads upstairs to his bedroom without as much as checking on Carl, Judith and the others. He locks the bedroom door because he can’t stand to be disturbed tonight while he wallows in self-pity. He kicks off his shoes, drops the jacket somewhere on the floor and climbs into the bed, sliding under the covers.

And then he pushes his face into the pillow to muffle the frustrated yell he can’t seem to stop himself from letting out.

Everything was going so well. Daryl even bought his own Goddamn magnet! It was pink and glittery like a Barbie dream, for fuck’s sake. The guy sang a Disney princess song about being kissed by a prince to Rick’s daughter, once. Said he liked Rick’s beard. Hanged out with an openly gay guy every other day. What was it all about if he was actually straight and hated gays all along? It makes no sense. Daryl gave no indication he hated anything about Paul until Rick asked. He seemed to like the guy, actually, seemed to enjoy those damn lunches that had Rick so twisted with envy for a few weeks now. He works for a gay man and never once commented about it anyway, either. It’s just so weird to think he’d acted all tolerant but thought otherwise all this time. He’s been such a straightforward guy, hiding stuff doesn’t seem much like him. But then if he didn’t mean to give voice to his deeply hidden homophobia, what exactly _did_ he mean?

God, what if Daryl really is angry that Paul’s into Rick because _he_ is into Paul himself? It didn’t sound like it, but Daryl’s not a very open guy about things like feelings and emotions at the best of times, so who knows. Damn.

All in all, Rick doesn’t get much sleep that night. He keeps tossing and turning, overthinking stuff, his mind all over the place, circling around the same conclusions again and again, until he’s even more exhausted than when he started out. Around two, he finally has it with his damn brain that refuses to shut down for a damn sleep-filled minute. He gets out of bed and heads downstairs to the kitchen to find something to keep himself busy.

He only notices Daryl on the front porch because the man is smoking and the glow at the tip of the cigarette draws Rick’s attention. It’s been such a long time since Daryl’s smoked, Rick almost forgot the man used to do it as a habit back when they first met. Now, he watches from the dark kitchen as Daryl smokes three cigs in a row. It makes him feel guilty. Did he cause Daryl so much nerves the guy can’t calm down without returning to his old addiction? Damn, this can’t be healthy.

Rick sighs, making up his mind, and heads outside to join Daryl on the porch.

“Thought ya ‘s sleepin’,” Daryl mutters when Rick sits down next to him on the stairs.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep,” Rick replies softly. “Too tired I guess.”

“Sleep dun’ work that way,” Daryl says, rolling his eyes. He retrieves another cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He scowls when Rick immediately plucks it from his fingers and throws it away beyond the railing. “The fuck, man?”

“You’ve had enough. Saw you smoke enough to give you instant cancer,” Rick says firmly.

Daryl hums in acceptance even though his expression is still vaguely annoyed. He relaxes, leans back against the stairs, and looks up at the sky above lazily. “Thought ya wouldn’t wanna talk to me no more,” he mumbles. “Thought ya woulda made me leave come mornin’. Planned to go so you’s never had to. Chickened out, though.”

“Why would I ever want you gone?” Rick asks incredulously.

It earns him a chuckle of disbelief. “Ya gon’ make me say it? Ya really gon’ make me say it to yer face now? What, yer itchin’ to punch me an’ need a reason or sumthin’?”

And Rick’s really done with the situation. “I don’t know what you’re even saying right now. Daryl, I don’t get what you’re saying, okay? I’ve been trying to understand, I’ve gone over the whole conversation like a hundred times, and I honestly don’t get you anymore. What are you telling me, or not telling me? What, you think I’m going to make a move on Paul or something? Chill, man, I’m not interested in that guy, you can have him all to yourself if you want him, I don’t-”

“My God, Grimes,” Daryl interrupts him, staring at him like Rick’s just said the stupidest thing in the whole damn world. “Ya really this fuckin’ blind?”

“What?” Rick asks, feeling anger rise up within him again, but before he can raise his voice or do anything equally dumb like that, Daryl grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in, and then they’re kissing.

And fuck, it’s horrible, it’s the worst damn first kiss in the whole history of first kisses. The angle is all wrong and their teeth clash, and Daryl stinks like cigarette smoke and too much beer. It’s all too forceful, too clumsy, too everything, like they’re teenagers who don’t really know what to put where and how to make it work. It’s also fucking perfect and the only thing Rick can think is a relieved, _finally_ ; he presses himself into Daryl’s body, kissing back, moving his lips against Daryl’s, pushing his tongue into Daryl’s mouth and tasting the menthol and ash on his breath. It’s nothing like kissing a woman, nothing like kissing Lori, not better but also not worse; just different, so completely different, and Rick wants to commit to memory all the differences: how Daryl’s lips are chapped and thin and how Daryl’s face is rough where he’s used to smoothness, and how Daryl fights him and yields but doesn’t submit to him fully, just enough to be his equal-

Then it’s over, all too soon, all too suddenly; Daryl gets up to his feet like he’s been burned, and he looks down at Rick with regret all too clear in his storm-blue eyes.

“I can’t,” he mumbles.

“But you-you started it,” Rick protests, standing up as well, attempting to move back into Daryl’s space.  
The man shakes his head. “‘m sorry,” he whispers, “shouldnt’a done it. Ya jus’ go t’ sleep, Rick. Forget this happened. Please.”

Rick doesn’t want to forget. He wants to hold Daryl close and explore his mouth, he wants to kiss him so hard he could really taste him under all that ash and smoke, he wants to touch and to feel and to love him, he wants everything. How’s he supposed to let go now that he knows what kissing Daryl is like? How’s he supposed to live without doing it again?

“Daryl,” he says the man’s name like a prayer. Like he’s begging for mercy that only Daryl can grant him.

“No. No, please, I can’t,” Daryl groans, but his resolve crumbles and he steps into Rick’s arms without resistance. He sighs against Rick’s lips and lets himself be kissed one more time, and then again, and again, and again until both of their breathing becomes labored and their hearts beat too fast, and their faces are flushed, and Rick feels too hot. He bites down on Daryl’s lower lip and slides his hands under the man’s shirt, mapping the skin of Daryl’s abdomen with his fingertips, learning how to navigate hard plains instead of the soft curves he’s used to, and Daryl moans into his mouth, a broken, needy sound Rick can’t help but reciprocate-

And then, just when Rick thinks nothing can break this moment he’d been waiting for so long, his own moan is what wakes him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me, I'll fix this!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Eventually...


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the fallout.  
> Also known as "the one where Daryl learns to text".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!  
> Couldn't leave you guys until Wednesday on that last chapter... have this one too.

Daryl is nowhere to be found during most of the following Sunday, but Rick tries not to panic over it. The FXE is also missing and that means Daryl is definitely coming back sooner or later; regardless of their rather irrational conflict based on possibly completely misunderstanding each other’s words and intentions, Rick is absolutely convinced Daryl wouldn’t just take the bike and disappear. And anyway, the magnet Daryl bought yesterday is on the fridge, as Rick notes early in the morning when he goes down to make breakfast after his rude awakening to the real, bleak world. The glittery pink rider's stuck right next to Rick's mama duck, squeezed between it and the ducklings even though there's a lot of space everywhere else on the door. Like Daryl specifically wanted his magnet right there. As close as possible. So close it’s almost on top of the mama duck, actually. It makes Rick think entirely too much about the dream... and about what exactly he may have misunderstood of Daryl’s admission yesterday.

Because in spite of everything, even if his mind really really likes going around in circles and torturing him with visions of what he wants being beyond his reach, Rick is a damn hopeful optimist at heart. He really likes to believe in happy endings. Maybe this situation can still be resolved if he comes clean to Daryl, tells him all about how he absolutely isn’t into hippie Jesus, no need to worry about it regardless of how attractive the dude is, and then just, well, goes with the flow. The problem is Lori always said he was bad at talking to people about his feelings unless they started the subject and made him talk about it. Seems like nothing’s changed and unfortunately, Daryl’s not likely to come out with the initiative and have a civil conversation about love, of all things. Rick learned to talk to Lori eventually. He’ll just have to step up and learn how to talk _feelings_ with Daryl, too.

Of course, Daryl would first have to be present for that to happen.

Rick spends some time in the garden, watering the plants and watching Carl, Beth and Shane painting tiny models of people for their model city project. They moved the city into the garage to protect from the rain and wind, evicting the truck to the driveway in the process. Apparently, what they’re building is not just a simple suburban neighborhood in a very small scale, but a gated community during a zombie apocalypse. It’s something based on Carl’s recently favorite comic books, adapted to look better and more badass. Rick doesn’t know the details because he still refuses to read anything Carl hands him - he’s still stuck on the first book of Harry Potter and he actually _still_ doesn’t know what it means that he’s a Gryffindor, according to his son’s judgment - but even to him, ignorant as he is, the whole construction is impressive.

He didn’t think Beth would be interested in such things.

“Well, I don’t care much for the zombies,” Beth admits when he asks, “the rest is interesting, though. The way we’re making the neighborhood, it reminds me of here, actually. It’s helped me think about some ideas to fortify our home, you know? In case some bad guys try and come to hurt you again.”

The way she says it, Rick can’t help but remember how young Beth still is in spite of everything she’s been through. She’s little more than a child. It’s so good to see her lively and enthusiastic about things, even things like protecting Rick from danger when it’s supposed to be him protecting her; he supposes they’re just going to have to go on protecting each other. That’s what families do.

“Don’t know what you did, Grimes, but I really hope you fix it soon, otherwise I’ll have to kick your tiny bubble butt,” Michonne tells him come dinner time when Daryl still isn’t back. She’s the third person in a row having trouble getting Judith to calm down enough to have a proper meal, after Carl and Beth during breakfast and lunch, respectively. The little princess is fussier than ever. She didn’t even act like this when she had a fever back in December.

“She misses Daryl,” Carl said earlier like it’s the obvious explanation. And he might be onto something, because as soon as she heard the man’s name, Judith started looking around and called,

“Da!” - and then she wailed unhappily when it turned out Daryl wasn’t there after all.

Rick sighs. “Michi, I don’t know if I can fix this,” he says and picks up his rather distressed daughter who voices her displeasure by saying something like, _blargh_.

“Ugh, daaaad. Can’t you two just kiss and make up?” Carl asks, groaning in distaste. “I can’t deal with all this teenage drama.”

“He can’t kiss Daryl if Daryl’s not here,” Michonne says reasonably.

“Da,” Judith mumbles unhappily.

“Yeah, I know, princess,” Rick says, kissing the top of her head because his lovely daughter is someone he actually _can_ kiss whenever he wants. At least until she’s old enough to stop him, but he reckons that won’t happen for another ten years.

There’s a knock on the door and Rick goes to open, feeling his heart beat a little faster even though he’s pretty sure it’s not Daryl; Daryl wouldn’t knock and anyway, there was no telltale rumble of the engine outside. Unsurprisingly, the door opens to reveal not Daryl, but Tara and Denise, both of them smiling somewhat tightly as Tara starts:

“Hello! Hi Judith! Sorry for stopping by so late,” and she sounds a bit nervous, more than she had in a very long time in Rick’s presence. It’s not even that late, it’s still not dark outside.

“It’s no problem,” Rick assures her, trying for an encouraging tone. Judith babbles, gurgling out something that might sound vaguely like _Tala_ , but might also just be _lala_.

“Umm. Okay. So, I don’t know if you remember, but some time ago I told you I applied to the Police Academy in DC,” Tara says and pauses. She looks at Denise who squeezes her hand.

Rick nods, smiling. “I remember. I wished you luck. Did you get in?”

“I got in,” Tara announces, the nervousness momentarily gone. “I got in, and I just found out, they posted the results online like, an hour ago, even though it’s Sunday, and Rick, I got in!”

“That’s my girl,” Rick tells her proudly. He wrote her recommendation letter. He’s pretty sure it didn’t mean much to whoever was on the acceptance committee, but Tara insisted and it seemed important to her that it was him.

“We’re having a little get-together with some friends, to celebrate,” Denise supplies. “On Friday, just a barbecue, maybe a bonfire. Fireworks, too, if we can get the permit from the Neighborhood Council, and since I’m on the council, that’s practically a done deal. We’d like you to come. You and your whole family.”

Rick feels his heart swell. It’s been a long time since he actually felt like a part of a larger community. He isn’t very close with the other neighbors at all. Even befriending Tara and, by association, Denise, was no more than a happy accident. But this is an opportunity for that to change. Rick realizes with a start that he actually wants to be part of something bigger. He wants to meet the people he’s been living around for over a year and a half. He wants to introduce his family to them and he wants to be introduced to their families.

Because all of this is part of settling down.

“Yeah, of course, we’d be honored to come,” he assures Denise and Tara, beaming at them.

“That’s awesome,” Tara says. “You don’t have to bring anything. I mean you can, but you don’t have to. I mean besides yourself. And Judith. And the others. I better stop talking now.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” Denise tells her.

Rick nods. “I’ll bring something for sure. Call me Wednesday, tell me what you’re having so I don’t spend all Thursday in vain making repeats of stuff you’ve already got.”

“Yours would be better, whatever it is,” Tara says with conviction.

Rick chuckles. “Unless it’s pie,” he replies because he remembers the peach pie disaster.

He says goodbye to the young couple and returns to the kitchen. He relays the invitation to the others and smiles when Carl immediately demands his barbecue special: bite-sized beef pieces wrapped in bacon and marinated in garlic sauce for three days before grilling. Rick’s only made the special once since Lori, last year at Hershel’s. He used to make it a few times a year back in Atlanta when Carl was younger, back when it was literally the only thing he knew how to cook besides hot water. He supposes he doesn’t mind making it again. He’s pretty sure everyone will enjoy it.

He thinks wistfully about Daryl. He really hopes Daryl will want to go with them.

And then he remembers that he’s got Daryl’s brand new phone number. He didn’t think about it earlier, mostly because he simply forgot all about the smartphone he bought for the man yesterday, what with everything that happened afterward. He grabs his own phone and writes a quick text before Judith can snatch the cell away and try to eat it:

_I’m sorry. We miss you. Where are you? - Rick_

Maybe it’s too much, maybe he should have worded it differently, kept it more clinical, but Rick doesn’t even have the time to regret it because the answer is almost instantaneous:

_Aarons. You got nothing to be sorry for. Ill be back in an hour. -D_

Then, two more messages arrive in quick succession:

_Im the one whos sorry._

_Miss you too._

And Rick’s heart skips a beat. He knows, rationally, that Daryl probably means he misses everyone at home, not just Rick, or he doesn’t really miss anyone and he’s just writing it because it’s expected. But rationality doesn’t seem to be his biggest strength after just a few hours of restless sleep and that wonderful dream he had. Daryl could’ve typed _miss you guys_ , or _miss you all_ , but no, he only typed _you_ like he was addressing Rick specifically. Rick resists the urge to ask for clarification because that would just seem desperate. He just sends a short reply, _We’re waiting_ , and he smiles at Judith.

“Your favorite Da is coming home soon,” he promises.

Shane looks at him quizzically for a moment from where he sits at the table, a bottle of beer in hand and an apple in front of him in silent mockery of his unhealthy eating habits. “I don’t want to know what you’re being all blushy about,” he announces, “but I hope it all works out nicely for you. Word of advice though, sexting while you’re holding your toddler isn’t really in good taste, man, you might not wanna do that.”

“Shut up, Shane,” say Michonne, Rick and Carl simultaneously. Beth snorts inelegantly in amusement but doesn’t say anything, pretending she’s too engrossed in the pop culture magazine she’s been reading.

Shane rolls his eyes. “I’m just sayin’. Don’t hate on me, you all know I’m right.”

“You are rather red in the face,” Michonne admits, looking at Rick with a little smirk. “Since when does Daryl have a phone, anyway? How come I don’t have his number?”

“We bought it yesterday, got him a plan and all,” Rick says simply. “And you need to get your eyes checked, Michi. You too, Shane. I’m not blushing at all. Now pass me the fruit salad. I’m going to feed my daughter because you losers can’t do it properly.”

He actually succeeds at the job, too. Judith is much more eager to cooperate all of a sudden like she understands that Daryl is going to be back soon and she wants to be a good little princess for his benefit. Rick would be a bit jealous that his own daughter prefers Daryl to him like that if he wasn’t so giddy about seeing the other man soon, as well. After that text, and the magnet on the fridge, and even his dream, he can’t help but wonder if perhaps this evening may go better than he originally expected. Perhaps an apology in person will turn into something much more pleasant involving lips, tongues, and hands in some interesting places.

Well, _now_ he’s blushing.

After Judith is fed to the brim and much more satisfied with life, Rick sets her in the cot on the windowsill where she plays with Cat who’s very accepting of the baby as long as he gets some pets and snacks out of it. Michonne drags the others away to the living room to play Monopoly, leaving Rick alone with his daughter and a ton of dishes to wash. Whatever; he doesn’t mind. It’s something to keep him busy until Daryl returns and anyway, he’s horrible at Monopoly and quite good at doing the dishes. It’s calming work, rather relaxing, to be honest, doesn’t require much engagement from him, so his thoughts keep wandering back to the dream he had last night, and he looks out through the window like he’s expecting to see Daryl smoking on the porch outside.

He doesn’t, but he does hear the rumble of the motorcycle engine and his heart does this weird lurch. The last time he felt this way was on the day of his wedding when he saw Lori walking down the aisle towards him. He’s nervous, but it’s a jittery kind of feeling like he’s anticipating something he’s been waiting for far too long.

And then, because he’s a creeper who watches people through his windows, Rick sees Paul intercept Daryl before the man comes to the house. The two start talking, all calm and casual at the beginning before Paul starts acting weird, his gesticulation much too lively for a normal friendly conversation. Curious and cursing himself for his nosiness, Rick walks to the front door and opens it a sliver, hoping he can hear what the men are discussing with such ferocity.

And he hears, alright.

“- and I didn’t want to say anything, but man. This is going way too far and you know it,” is what Paul says, and it sounds like a warning. “You’re going way too far.”

“I wanna tell ‘im,” Daryl counters, voice much quieter and calmer, but his tone is unexpectedly cool; Rick’s never had that particular tone directed at him in the weeks since he first met Daryl, and he hopes he never will.

“Well, you can’t, that’s the thing! You know the consequences if you do. You really want to risk everything we’ve got just because you grew attached to him? Because I won’t be staying if you tell him, Daryl. And I’d really like to see how you do this without me.”

“Fuck ya, man,” Daryl growls. “Done dealt well ‘nuff ‘fore ya came along. Rick deserves ta know the truth an’ I gon’ tell ‘im.”

“Please don’t,” Paul begs. He sounds almost desperate now. “Don’t make me do this, man. Don’t throw it all away for that guy. You don’t owe him shit, way I see it he should be owing you. It was your own damn idea anyway, I don’t get how you can be so stupid about it now. You _know_ it’s all just a fantasy, don’t you? This little family you’ve grown so fond of, you can’t have it, Daryl. You don’t belong there, you’re not really-”

“Ain’t yer business last I checked,” Daryl tells Paul viciously, and turns his back on the man. Paul says something else, softer than before, something Rick doesn’t hear. Daryl apparently ignores him and Paul, defeated, goes back to his house across the street, shaking his head.

Rick moves back into the kitchen as stealthily as he possibly can and he returns to the dishes, humming a silly song about cats as though he never left to eavesdrop. His thoughts are racing, though. Try however he might, he can’t make heads or tails of the conversation he’s just witnessed besides the fact that it sounded strangely intimate. Like a lover’s quarrel, or maybe a break-up scene.

But Daryl said there was nothing between him and Paul. Did he lie? Oh God, what if Daryl wasn’t ignorant of Rick’s feelings at all, and didn’t want to tell him he was seeing Paul to spare him the heartache?... It doesn’t seem like a very Daryl thing to do, but neither does lying for no reason.

And then again, it might’ve been about another matter entirely, that talk just now, not a secret relationship or a lack of one, or whatever. The two of them, Daryl and Paul, they’re hiding something from Rick. Something important, something Daryl wants to tell him. Is it, maybe, something terrible? Was Shane right all along? Is it possible both Daryl and Paul involved in the bad stuff that’s been happening around Rick and his family? Doesn’t seem likely, Shane did thorough background checks on the both of them and, well, what kind of villain willingly changes diapers on a daily basis? What kind of criminal mastermind does yoga with any interested neighbors every morning in his front yard? And if it’s true that the FBI is now involved with the investigation, then surely if there was something to be worried about, they would’ve come around to check out the suspicious parties. Wouldn’t they?

Damn, if Rick was confused before, now he’s pretty much completely lost in the dark.

He tries not to think about what he’s heard, not to make up any roundabout theories and weird stories surrounding what was really most likely just two guys having a row about whatever damn thing they have going on between them that’s not Rick’s business. He actually succeeds in derailing the somewhat crazed runaway train of his thoughts when Daryl comes in and picks up Judith as soon as she squeals in excitement and starts calling for him. He brings her along as he approaches Rick, a tentative, shy smile on his face like he’s not quite sure the whole conflict is behind them, but he wants it to be.

“You had fun with Aaron today?” Rick asks, returning the smile. He doesn’t know what the hell Daryl’s hiding from him and he decides then and there, he’s not going to ask. Whatever is going on, he hopes eventually Daryl will tell him. Yeah, so maybe the possibility of this evening evolving into a kissing marathon was just wishful thinking but, damn it, they’re friends, Daryl and him. There’s a pink magnet on his fridge to prove it.

“Got ‘im to teach me stuff for work t’morrow,” Daryl says softly. “Sorry I went without tellin’ no-one. Should’ve left a note. Just had a lotta stuff on ma mind.”

“It’s okay,” Rick assures him. “I should’ve remembered to text you sooner, but I completely forgot you’re a modern man with a real phone now.”

“Funk off,” Daryl chuckles, mindful of the language in the presence of a lady. Judith giggles, copying his improved mood instantly.

“She was a literal nightmare without you here,” Rick informs him, motioning to Judith with his chin. He finishes washing the final plate and dries off his hands with the towel. Then, he looks at the fridge, at Daryl, at the fridge again, back to Daryl - and he grins.

“I’m gonna hug you,” he warns playfully.

“Ain’t that kinda the point?” Daryl asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Got the impression ‘s what ‘em magnets was for. Whacha waitin’ on, a written invite?”

So Rick wraps his arms around Daryl, pulling him into a loose embrace so that Judith is squeezed comfortably between their chests. She seems incredibly pleased with this turn of events: she starts singing, tapping her tiny hands against Rick’s shoulder almost rhythmically.

Daryl breaths out a sound that’s almost laughter. “She likes huggin’, dun’ she?”

“She likes you,” Rick says fondly. “And so do I. The hug’s just a bonus for us, isn’t it, princess Judy?”

“Da,” Judith says, beaming. Then she looks up at Daryl and adds resolutely, “Da!”

“Like ya too,” Daryl says, looking away. He’s blushing, Rick can see it even in the dim lighting in the kitchen. The man must realize it because he tries to hide his face by lowering his head so that his hair falls forth, but Rick lifts his hand and cups Daryl’s jaw gently before he even thinks about it. Instantly Daryl looks at him, eyes widening, lips falling open on an exhale, and Rick hesitates - he shouldn’t do this, he knows neither of them is ready for this, but Daryl is absolutely _beautiful_ right now and Rick might still not be thinking clearly. And then Daryl licks his lips, his gaze flicking down to Rick’s mouth, and this is it. Very slowly, giving the other man every opportunity to back away, Rick leans in, letting his eyes slide closed as their lips are just about to touch-

“Dad, we got any nachos left? Shane’s eaten the entire pa-aaaah holy cranberry!”

Rick stumbles and almost falls on his ass, so fast does Daryl push him away. Suddenly finding himself with an armful of Judith, Rick can’t do much more but watch as Daryl flees into the hallway and then disappears in his bedroom, the door falling noisily shut behind him.

“I’m so sorry, dad, I didn’t know you guys were- uh, doing that,” Carl says apologetically, “though I asked you not to kiss in front of me or where I could see, that’s gross… Ummm, are you alright? Dad?”

Rick shakes his head and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You wanted nachos? Didn’t you just have dinner not two hours ago?”

“Yeah, but you can’t really play games without snacks, it’s not as fun,” Carl informs him like Rick’s being unreasonable. “Dad, did I interrupt something, you know, important? That wasn’t about to be your first kiss with Daryl, was it?”

“Shut your mouth and hold your sister,” Rick says forcefully, handing Judith to his son. “I’m going to get you your nachos.”

“... I’ll take that as a yes. I’m really sorry? Just… Thought you’d have kissed him by now? I mean,” Carl falters at the look Rick gives him. “You know what, it’s not important. Um. How about I go put Jude to sleep? You can, you know, look for the nachos if you want. Or not. I’ll come back for them later.”

He walks hastily away, leaving Rick alone to wallow in self-pity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is why Judith is Rick's favorite child :D


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The week that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little earlier. Hope you guys appreciate it!

The week that follows is quite busy and doesn’t give Rick a much-needed opportunity to be alone with Daryl, who also seems to act like he’s actually trying to avoid him. It sucks, but there’s nothing to do about it but endure. So Rick does, the best he can.

Monday is Daryl’s first official day of work at Aaron’s and Rick spends the better part of the morning after Daryl leaves, and the early afternoon driving Beth around the neighborhood, dropping off papers at a few of the high schools which accept applications. Beth’s first choice is the campus Carl goes to, mostly because it’s close to home, but she agrees to try for a few other options Rick’s been assured are also good schools. When they’re done with the official part of school-hunting, Rick takes Beth out for ice-cream at a very nice joint which just so happens to be around the block from Aaron’s garage. It’s a complete coincidence that it’s Daryl’s lunch break, Rick didn’t plan for it at all, but since the circumstances have aligned so nicely, he decides it would be a waste of an opportunity if they let Daryl go without a good dessert. He spends more time picking the ice-cream for Daryl than he did for himself, despite the fact that he knows Daryl will like whatever he chooses: the man’s sweet tooth isn’t especially selective. Everything’s fine as long as it’s sugary.

“Triple chocolate-strawberry sundae might be a little excessive,” Beth says, but she’s grinning so hard her cheeks dimple. 

Rick shrugs. “Daryl’s a big guy, he has big appetites,” he informs her and thinks,  _ down, boy _ , because a part of him is very interested in what else Daryl might have an appetite for. He definitely doesn’t need such ideas right now. 

Daryl’s just finishing the sandwiches Rick prepared for him this morning for lunch. He looks very good in the dark blue racerback tank he’s wearing with the dark gray long-sleeved coveralls, the top of which is tied around his waist due to the weather. Actually,  _ very good  _ is an understatement. The word on Rick’s mind is  _ delectable _ , but even that might not do him justice. He looks like a model in a magazine with eye-candy, not a previously homeless mechanic.

Daryl frowns when the two of them arrive at the garage, but the confusion in his face quickly gives way to a small not-smile like he’s just genuinely happy to see them. 

“Beth was scouting for schools in the neighborhood and then we went for ice-cream,” Rick explains. He hands Daryl the oversized cone he got for him. “Thought you’d appreciate some, too. Hottest day this year so far, and all.”

“Ya sure ‘tis a good idea to spoil me like this?” Daryl asks, but he accepts the treat gratefully. He licks away the trickle of ice-cream that’s started to melt and flow down the cone. Rick doesn’t look away because that would be even more suspicious than if he were caught staring. Or something. He’s pretty sure his brain is overheating, so he’s not so sure about the reasoning behind anything he does.

Daryl blushes when he notices him looking, and pointedly looks away. 

“How has your day been so far? It’s been a while since you spent so much time away from home,” Beth chimes in, looking around the inside of the garage. She doesn’t seem overly interested in the bikes, just taking in her surroundings like she’s never seen a place so filled with machines and engine parts before. 

“‘s actually less work ‘ere,” Daryl jokes, visibly more comfortable talking to Beth about work than being an ice-cream eating spectacle for Rick. “Fixed a vintage Triumph, played ‘round with a Suzuki, had a client leave an old Harley for monthly check-up. Slow day. Aaron’s said Mondays usually are. Expectin’ more t’ do ‘n Wednesday.”

“Well, you look happy as a dead pig in the sunshine,” Rick says, grinning. “It’s good to see you like this, man. Glad you took this job.”

And he is glad, even if having Daryl away for prolonged intervals makes him antsy. It feels like there’s something fundamentally wrong with the universe whenever Rick can’t find Daryl within the periphery of his vision. He’s aware that feeling this way indicates he might have a problem, a penchant for absolute control that might be kind of creepy, but he can’t help it. He got too used to seeing Daryl around all the time and now not seeing him playing with Judith or helping out in the kitchen seems unnatural. As if the axis of the entire world is crooked. 

“‘m glad too,” Daryl says softly, giving Rick a rare real smile, the kind that makes his face lose all of its usual wariness, the kind that brightens the day and outshines the sun. 

Yep, Rick’s romantic streak is showing. He can’t help it. He’s completely, pathetically in love with this man and he never wants it to stop.

“Rick’s making pizza rolls for dinner, we’d better go buy the ingredients after we’re done here,” Beth announces, either unable to read the room or eager to break the tension between the two men before it becomes too awkward. “Any preferences, Daryl?”

The man blinks at the sudden change in subject, but he quickly composes himself. He shrugs, licking at his ice-cream as he thinks, then finally he says, “Well, I’ll eat anythin’ s’ long ‘s got meat.”

“Ugh, corpse-eaters,” Beth mutters, pretending to be disgusted. Her choice not to eat meat and animal products isn’t ideological, it’s just a preference inherited after her late mother. She doesn’t actually mind it when the others have meat in her presence, even though she jokes about their carnivorous tendencies sometimes. She isn’t offended when she gets called a bunny in return, most often by Carl who might be harboring a bit of a crush on her. Okay, a giant crush. Boy’s not subtle about it, either.

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of corpses… meat, I mean, to go around,” Rick assures Daryl, chuckling when Beth makes a face. 

He makes sure to prepare a helping of rolls with double the meat amount he’d usually use. Daryl enjoys them a lot once he comes home in the evening. Rick grins so wide he’s pretty sure the top of his head is going to fall off.

On Tuesday though, his good humor vanishes without a trace because Daryl goes out with Paul after playing with Judith for an hour after her breakfast. He tucks the little girl in for her nap, grabs his jacket and leaves, informing Rick he’ll be back later, no details, no nothing. Rick, being a creeper as usual, watches him go from the kitchen window, and he sees the man meet up with the damn pretty hippie Jesus from across the street in front of Paul’s house. The two talk for a moment before Paul motions to Rick’s house with his hand. Daryl shakes his head in denial of something and then they walk away down the street in the direction of the park. 

It would be more bearable if Rick had somebody to talk to about it, but everyone’s become somewhat judgmental of him lately. Well, everyone but Beth. Rick can’t talk to Beth about his heart troubles, though, in justified fear that she might start judging him too. 

“You know what your problem is?” Michonne asks, planting her feet in Rick’s lap when they sit on the couch together. 

“I’m sure you can tell me,” Rick mutters and starts prodding at the proffered feet in his best rendition of a massage. 

“You’re going about it as suave as a forty-year-old virgin,” Michonne informs him. 

Rick sputters and vengefully pushes her feet away. Michonne plants them right back where they were. They both know she’s got a point. It doesn’t mean Rick has to be happy about it.

“How hard can it be to ask him out? I mean it, Rick. He looks at you like you’re the one who hung the stars in the sky. It’s becoming intolerable. I’m sure Shane’s going to ask him out for you if you don’t man up soon.”

“With what pick-up lines?” Rick asks meanly because he knows Shane’s about as terrible at asking anyone out as he is, only he tries to mask it with terrible lines that sometimes land him dates because women tend to pity him. How he managed to ask Michonne out and not get kicked in the teeth will remain a mystery for the ages. 

“I think he’s dating Jesus… I mean, Paul, he’s dating Paul,” Rick says in a tone that’s so carefully neutral it could get people out of hostage situations all on its own. Rick Grimes, a fucking diplomat extraordinaire! 

Michonne looks at him strangely. “What are you going on about? Aren’t you over this yet? Because I think you’re delusional.”

“I overheard them on Sunday,” Rick explains. He doesn’t mention how  _ overheard _ means  _ deliberately eavesdropped on them _ in this context. “Daryl wanted to tell me something and Paul didn’t want him to. Said he’d leave him if he did. I thought maybe they broke up, because I’m almost sure me and Daryl were about to kiss in the kitchen that evening, but… Well, they went out together again today. So there’s that.”

Sometimes, Rick actually wishes he were a young adult novel protagonist because, in addition to explaining his unreasonable actions on multiple occasions, it would also mean he’d get to have his happy ending eventually. Unless it was one of those edgy young adult novels that are so trendy nowadays where everybody dies and nobody is ever happy. Then he’d be screwed. But he already is. He’d make a crappy protagonist, it seems. 

Daryl returns home late that afternoon. He goes straight to the bathroom and takes a long shower before he joins Rick in the kitchen to help with the dishes. Rick can’t help but notice a small bruise on the other man’s shoulder. It looks like a hickey. He doesn’t comment on his discovery, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he engages Daryl in a forced conversation about the weather being so nice they could all go fishing sometime soon, what a wonderful idea, let’s definitely do that on a weekend. He’s not even surprised when Daryl flees to his bedroom as soon as he can, after kissing Judith’s forehead and saying  _ g’night _ .

Wednesday morning, Rick sends Daryl off to work with two lunch boxes. One contains sandwiches and the other, meat, veggies and mashed potatoes to heat up in the microwave. 

“You said there’s going to be more to do today. You’ll need the extra energy,” he explains and then hands Daryl one more box, a smaller, cardboard one, with a big slice of carrot cake inside. 

“Ya make a fine wife,” Daryl jokes, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. It’s such a change from the usual awkward-shy Daryl, Rick’s not sure what to think, other than how much he  _ likes _ the sudden transformation. It’s almost like Daryl’s flirting. Of his own volition.

Rick licks his lips and slaps him a little too forcefully on the arm. “Go or you’re gonna be late,” he says and turns his back on the man, pretending there’s something on the counter that absolutely demands his full attention right this moment. It would be more believable if there was anything on the counter at all. 

He can tell Daryl’s confused as he leaves. Unfortunately for him, Rick really doesn’t care about his confusion when he’s got enough of his own to deal with.

“It’s like he can’t make up his mind,” he complains to Judith as he spoon-feeds his little princess with some homemade chocolate mousse. She’s not exactly happy about being fed by someone who isn’t Daryl yet again, but she tolerates it because she clearly enjoys the treat. Rick’s getting quite good at making sweets. It’s got nothing to do with Daryl’s sweet tooth. He just likes taking on new challenges. At least that’s how he justifies it to himself time and again. 

“He flirts with me one day and then the next day, he goes out with that flower-loving gorgeous hippie Jesus-lookalike and doesn’t even look back,” he informs Judith who hums around the spoon like she’s acknowledging Rick’s dilemma. “Then he comes home and has the gall to smile at me, and of course everything is forgiven, but I just know he’s going to go to that pretty boy’s place as soon as I look away for a moment. I don’t know what to do, Jude. I need to act, but I have no plan and frankly, I need you to tell me: how do I compete for someone’s affections with a guy who looks like that?”

“You know, for a hitherto straight dude, you sure appreciate your neighbor’s looks a lot,” Shane remarks, looking at him dubiously from where he’s been standing and studying the magnets on the fridge. He can’t seem to wrap his head around Daryl’s pink glittery rider. “Also, if you expect relationship advice from a toddler, I don’t know what to say to you, man.”

“At least she doesn’t judge me all the time,” Rick snaps and throws a biscuit at Shane. It bounces off the man’s pec and drops to the floor. Cat eats it. Cat eats every edible thing off the floor if it isn’t retrieved fast enough. 

“You kinda deserve it, dad,” Carl supplies, once again reaffirming Rick’s conviction that Judith is his favorite child. 

“Can’t you all just leave me to my wallowing? Maybe I want to drown in self-pity over here by myself. Maybe that’s what I do.”

Carl shakes his head. “Hey, you do you, dad, but don’t get Judy involved,” he says. 

Daryl returns in time for dinner. He takes a quick shower, changes into sweats and a t-shirt, eats with everyone and then, as always, helps cleaning up after. He spends the evening with the family, reclining in the couch next to Rick and watching a documentary about real-life zombies Carl wanted to see. He falls asleep about halfway through the section about the so-called zombie deer disease, sliding down the couch until he’s propped against Rick’s shoulder. Rick doesn’t think about it before he softly kisses the top of the man’s head and brushes the shaggy hair with his fingers as if it’s completely normal. To be honest, he doesn’t even notice until he sees Michonne giving him a look. After that, he makes sure to keep his hands to himself, but he lets Daryl sleep in the same position. He doesn’t have the heart to wake him up until he absolutely has to. When he does, Daryl looks absolutely terrified with what happened and, once again, runs away to his room. It’s becoming a Goddamn tradition. 

On Thursday, Daryl stays at home, but it’s like he’s making sure not to be alone with Rick at any given moment. Seriously, he’s going so far as to engage Beth in a very long conversation about farm animals which somehow evolves into a discussion on music genres, and then moves on to movie preferences and even talk about Hollywood actors, a topic Rick  _ knows _ Daryl has no clue about and no actual interest in. It might be the first time he’s talked to Beth for such a long time. It’s pretty awkward for everyone involved. At least Rick learns Daryl’s favorite music is heavy metal and its related sub-genres which actually surprises him a little. He would’ve expected something more like country music; then again, that’s going by stereotypes and he should’ve learned by now Daryl is nothing like a stereotypical redneck. The heavy metal thing is fitting, anyway. He could’ve guessed if he ever tried. He wonders why he never did.

When Beth finally manages to excuse herself and flee to the garage to see to the city model or something, Daryl immediately decides he needs to go to the bathroom and take a shower. Even though he took one in the morning. Two hours earlier, in fact. 

“Done, uh, spilled stuff on m’self,” he explains meekly and leaves before Rick can call him out on the bullshit. 

He stays in the bathroom for an awfully long time. He only comes out when he hears Michonne’s voice as she explains to Rick the superiority of Shark Week reruns over a baseball game on TV. Daryl joins in on that conversation and immediately sides with Michonne who gives him a bright smile and decides he has permission to sit with her and have a cookie. Rick spitefully doesn’t share the next batch with them. He spends the rest of the day in the kitchen, preparing food for the party at Denise and Tara’s tomorrow and making initial preparations for Carl’s birthday the day after. 

And then on Friday, Daryl leaves for work early in the morning again, but this time he’s out the door even before Rick wakes up at his usual time to prepare breakfast. Hurt by this obvious effort to avoid him, Rick pretends he doesn’t care that Daryl has no food with him for the entire day. He can’t be held responsible for the other man’s choices, now can he? Obviously not. So he really doesn’t care that Daryl’s going to be hungry. It was his own decision. He should’ve waited for Rick to make him sandwiches. 

Rick is a strong-willed man. He reasons with himself that Daryl works twenty damn minutes from home, by foot. On the bike, it’s entirely possible to return home from the garage in about five minutes, eat three giant lunches, have a shower and then go back to the garage, all during the lunch break, and still have time for a smoke or five. He manages to delude himself that he’s strong-willed for nearly two hours before his resolve breaks. He packs six big, chunky sandwiches in a paper bag, wraps Judith in the baby sling strapped to his chest, grabs the bag and walks the familiar route down to the garage. 

Daryl’s engrossed in work when Rick arrives. He’s got an engine opened up and he’s doing something inside of it that requires a wrench and a lot of precision, as far as Rick can tell. It’s such a pity Judith can’t hold in her excitement at seeing Daryl, which she announces by squealing a loud and happy: 

“Da!” - before she starts babbling nonsense and wiggling her arms in Daryl’s general direction.

The man drops the wrench in surprise. He hisses something that sounds vaguely like a curse, but it’s not loud enough for Judith to hear so Rick supposes he can let it go this once. Daryl looks up at them with a surprised expression like he really didn’t expect to see anyone familiar here at this time. He probably didn’t.

“Brought you lunch,” Rick explains, showing him the paper bag. “You probably didn’t think to make yourself anything this morning, did you?”

“Didn’t wanna wake ya guys up,” Daryl mutters, averting his gaze. He picks up his wrench and starts fidgeting with it nervously. 

Rick smiles. “No worries. I got you,” he says. “What time will you be home? Or rather, can you make it in time for the barbecue or do I have to make excuses for you?”

“Should be right on time,” Daryl says. He takes the bag of sandwiches from Rick, who’s suddenly reminded of a time long gone when Daryl was still homeless and Rick brought him food to the park. Rick misses that time a little bit. It was easier. He wasn’t the least bit gay back then yet. That made life so much simpler. 

“Da, come home?” Judith says, and both Rick and Daryl kind of stare, first at each other and then at her, because this is clearly the first time she’s actually communicated with actual human words. 

Rick’s pretty sure there are tears in Daryl’s eyes as the man looks at the little princess in a sort of awestruck wonderment. He’s definitely sure there are tears in his, so he’s not going to call the other man out for being reasonably emotional about this profound, milestone moment. 

“‘course ‘m comin’ home, lil’ ass-kicker,” Daryl promises after a minute he apparently required to regain some of his composure. “Jus’ not yet, ‘kay? Be back ‘fore dinner. Now ‘m gotta work.”

“Mmmmkay,” Judith agrees and sticks the tip of her thumb in her mouth in exactly the same manner Daryl sometimes does. She doesn’t chew on the thumbnail, though, she just keeps it there. Daryl gives her an extra-loving kiss on the cheek and then discreetly wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he glares at Rick like he’s daring him to tell anyone. Rick promises him he won’t. 

He only tells everyone at home about Judith’s first conversation in a human language, carefully omitting the part of the story where both he and Daryl might have cried a little. He’s glad Daryl was there to witness it, because looking at the happily gurgling girl who’s very happy to roll around in the mud in the backyard, the rest of the family don’t actually believe him. It’s okay. Daryl confirms his version once he’s back before dinner-time as promised. They don’t believe him either and the expression he makes when Michonne accuses him of conspiracy is rather reminiscent of a childish pout. Judith giggles like she’s extremely happy with herself. Cat steals a piece of barbecue special before anyone can catch him. 

All in all, Rick decides it’s a pretty good day as he heads out with his family to the barbecue at Denise and Tara’s next door. 

And for once in Rick Grimes’ life, the day does actually progress to end better than it started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for the comments on this story, so please consider leaving one? Even though I may not always reply to comments because I get shy about it at first and then feel stupid replying days later so I don't reply at all, I read all comments and appreciate every little one of them <3
> 
> Also, this is officially the longest story I've ever written. It's so unexpected... Ah, I wish I'd have stumbled into this fandom earlier. Rick and Daryl are so inspiring... *wistful sigh*


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party at Tara and Denise's place. Rick realizes many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer, I almost considered dividing it into two, but ultimately decided not to. Enjoy :)

Tara greets them at the door. She looks incredibly adorable, dressed in a blue fitted tank top and a tiered, flowy skirt. She’s got flowers in her hair and blue glitter under her eyes. She doesn’t usually wear make-up at all so the difference is all the more prominent. 

“Hi everyone,” she says a little shyly. Rick remembers that he’s never bothered to introduce his extended family to the next-door neighbors and he decides to quickly amend that mistake.

“Guys,” he addresses his family, “this is Tara Chambler, the newest and brightest addition to the DC Police Academy roster, the future guardian of our neighborhood.”

The young woman blushes at the attention when Shane is the first one to firmly shake her hand, saying, “Welcome to the force, sister,” with a bright smile that matches the genuine pride in his eyes. Rick hopes Tara gets to work with Shane one day in the future. The guy’s got a lot to teach about the job, and he’s very against any hazing of rookies. Really, he’s probably the best that the Alexandria PD has to offer, though Rick definitely won’t be telling him this. Guy’s ego is big enough already.

Everyone says hi and congratulates the young neighbor, even Daryl who basically doesn’t know her, but tries to be nice even though he’s not exactly comfortable. Tara kind of looks at Daryl strangely, too, because she must be having trouble reconciling the clean, somewhat nicely-dressed man with the homeless bum from the park that he used to be back when she last paid attention to him. To be honest, the transformation isn’t astounding or anything. Daryl is still rough around the edges, still not respectable by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s clear that regular meals and restful sleep every night have done wonders to his appearance. Even if Rick didn’t have eyes to see it by himself, the reactions of the entire Goddamn neighborhood would’ve been a dead giveaway. Despite his obvious discomfort about it, Daryl’s in the center of attention wherever he goes. He’s followed around by curious looks; more than one of those glances is tinged with something more than just curiosity. Rick thought it was bad when it was just Paul stealing Daryl away from him. Right now, he’s actually considering  _ asking  _ Paul to stay with Daryl at all times, if only to protect the man from the many roaming eyes and the few bolder wandering hands.

Shane, of all people, bravely tries to draw away the attention of the majority of the middle-aged suburban moms who, after ingesting enough wine, seem all too interested in inappropriately touching good-looking men that aren’t their husbands. He even appears to thrive in the circumstances, all bad boy attitude and crooked smiles, but it’s easy to tell he’s not all that happy every time he gives an apologetic look to Michonne. Who laughs at him openly while chasing after Judith as the toddler follows a butterfly into the flowerbed. Apparently, everyone decided it’s not Rick’s turn to take care of his daughter. Michonne actually tells him to  _ go and have fun, preferably with Daryl, definitely in a bed, possibly naked _ . Then she dives into the redcurrant bushes to attempt to fish Judith out.

Rick sighs.  _ In bed with Daryl, huh. Like it’s that damn easy.  _

As it is, he spends the first hour of the party actually talking to different neighbors. He learns some new gossip about the retired actress who recently moved out of in a hurry - apparently she was chased off by the mafia. He hears at least seven different versions of Daryl’s backstory, each one more far-fetched than the previous, topped by the one claiming Daryl is a prince of a small country in Europe, but was hidden in Alexandria as a homeless man because he was targeted by Chinese spies. Yeah. 

Rick has a polite discussion about the weather this year with a few members of the council, exchanges a few gardening tips with the nice couple living in the house on the other side of the alley, and gets complimented on the sunflowers when he points to his garden, visible from Denise and Tara’s backyard. Then, finally, he’s intercepted by Paul who for some reason decides to engage him in conversation as well. 

“I was thinking of organizing some self-defense classes for the children in the neighborhood,” the man confesses. “Kids could learn some stuff over the summer. Think I should go for it?”

“Well your stint for the housewives is quite popular,” Rick admits. “Don’t see why not try with kids. Pretty sure Carl would join up. Beth too.”

“You know, I was hoping I’d be seeing  _ you _ ,” Paul says, and his tone is suggestive, like he doesn’t actually mean his martial arts training for dummies.

“Don’t really need self-defense,” Rick informs. He’s probably rusty, but he knows how to grapple if need be. He’s pretty self-confident about it.

Paul looks him up and down with a smirk. “Oh, really?” He asks - and tackles Rick to the ground in two swift, efficient movements, and keeps him pinned for a few seconds longer than really necessary. He’s damn strong for a scrawny guy like this. He then helps a very flustered and rather breathless Rick up. 

“Maybe you should consider coming up on the next session? You could brush up on your technique. I’d be happy to give you some pointers,” he says with a wide, satisfied grin.

Rick wants to reply with a snide comment, or even just call the younger man names like  _ sneaky bastard _ or something, but he’s momentarily distracted when he notices Daryl and two women in the shade of the apple tree. The women look incredibly animated as they talk, while Daryl seems uncomfortable. Rick frowns and points the scene out to Paul. Together, they act. Paul diverts the women’s attention by engaging them in a discussion about Hollywood Chrises while Rick very sneakily steals Daryl away and helps him find a place of reprieve. In this case, Tara and Denise’s kitchen. He finds it funny how he can work so well together with hippie Jesus when they’ve got the same goal. In a perfect world where Rick had no reason for jealousy, they’d probably make good friends. Actually, they’re sort of friends anyway. At least when Rick isn’t considering stabbing the man in the eye with w fruit peeler. So most of the time. He only considers that when Paul takes Daryl out for those damn lunches. 

“Are you okay?” He asks Daryl. It’s already becoming dark outside and everyone’s a little tipsy, so there’s a lot of handsy action going on. Rick feels a little guilty he didn’t come to the man’s rescue earlier. 

“‘m fine,” Daryl mutters. “Jus’, kinda overwhelmed. Dun’ like that much attention.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. Should’ve warned you,” Rick says sheepishly. He grabs two beers from the portable cooler and passes one to Daryl. “To be honest, I didn’t expect it to be this intense. I should’ve, though. Had the same thing happen to me at the welcome party they threw for me way back when. All those women learned I was widowed and they decided they absolutely had to take care of me, husbands or no husbands. Had to flee.”

“How’d ya manage to stay single so long?” Daryl asks, smirking in his non-obvious way. Normally he wouldn’t ask something so straight-forward; he must’ve had quite a lot to drink, as he kept hiding from people, to feel so emboldened.

Rick gives him the most serious look he can muster. “Determination,” he replies, deadpan, and grins wide when Daryl can’t help but laugh the tiniest bit at the remark.

“Can’t believe ‘em’s all over me when ‘s got the most eligible bachelor - sorry, widower - in the ‘hood, jus’ walkin’ ‘round with no escort,” Daryl jokes, sounding very much like he’s flirting as he shakes his head. He’s probably not flirting. He takes a large sip of his beer. Rick doesn’t watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. 

“Yeah, well I think it’s the novelty they like,” he guesses, shrugging as he resolutely looks at the wall instead of at Daryl who’s licking the remnants of beer foam from his lips. “They got used to me so I’m no longer an attractive target, you see.”

“Oh, dunno, that Jessie chick woulda took ya out for a ride if ya jus’ let ‘er,” Daryl informs him. He sounds amused, but his eyes are narrowed and sharp. Like he’s trying to gauge Rick’s reaction. The mixed signals are driving Rick crazy.

“Too bad she’s not my type,” Rick says easily because the only kind of ride he’d consider involves Daryl. Well, maybe a motorcycle too, but not necessarily. Definitely Daryl, though.

Jessie Anderson is a nice woman, a little younger than him, blonde and pretty. Divorced recently, her husband used to beat her. She’s got a bit of a hero complex involving Rick because it was apparently Rick who convinced her to do something about her life. He doesn’t even remember that, to be honest. He talked to Jessie maybe three times before she got divorced. He certainly never gave her any hint that he might be interested in her. He could have been, maybe, if he’d met her in different circumstances - if he met her after he and Lori got that divorce, if Lori didn’t die and Rick’s priorities in life weren’t forced to change so suddenly. Who knows. 

Rick only knows that he wouldn’t have even noticed she was there at the barbecue if Daryl hadn’t pointed it out. That’s how  _ not interested _ he is. 

“Ya one of those guys who’s like real’ particular ‘bout the type of woman ya like?” Daryl asks, downing the rest of his bottle. He sets the empty bottle on the counter. “Wha’s yer type, then? Maybe we can find one for ya.”

Rick frowns, confused. Why would he want to find a woman? Really, Daryl can’t be this oblivious, he must’ve figured out Rick was about to kiss him last Sunday before Carl interrupted them. He has to be aware of Rick’s feelings. Is this his subtle way of gently turning Rick down by offering to play wingman? Fuck. It is, isn’t it? 

Heart sinking, Rick decides to play along for the moment because it seems marginally better than going to cry alone in a corner. “Don’t like blondes,” he says without conviction. He finishes his beer, too. Then, “But it’s not about looks or anything. Wasn’t even really about that with Lori. I couldn’t be with someone who wouldn’t be my friend first,” he explains. 

“Why not Michonne, then?” Daryl asks with a quizzical expression. He passes Rick another bottle and takes one for himself. 

Rick accepts it with a nod. “It just never happened,” he states. It’s that simple. Something could’ve happened, but never did, and that’s it. “What about you, man? You’ve got a type?”

Daryl snorts, shaking his head. “Naw,” he says. “Ain’t never been interested in romance. Didn’ wanna waste time with ‘em girls. Got called a fag for it as a kid, but ain’t that neither. ‘s just. Never seen the point of bein’ with someone before.”

“Before,” Rick notes, aware that it’s the first time Daryl’s told him anything about his life in the past. But instead of feeling elated that the man trusts him enough to talk about it, Rick is dejected. He doesn’t look up at Daryl, afraid of what he’d see in the man’s face.  _ Before Paul _ , his mind finishes the thought Daryl hasn’t voiced out loud, and Rick’s pretty sure he can imagine Daryl looking towards the garden where Paul is probably socializing with everyone because it’s that easy for him. He can imagine it, but he doesn’t want to see it. Rick’s never had to deal with outright rejection and even though he can recognize when it’s happening, he’d rather continue pretending it’s not. Nothing is real unless it’s said out loud, right? So as long as Daryl doesn’t  _ say _ he’s not interested in Rick, he can still have this dumb and pointless hope. 

Daryl turns to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. He looks very much like he’s got something he needs to say before he loses the courage, which means Rick’s fear is just about to become reality. He starts, “Rick, I-”

“Hey guys, come on out, the firework show’s about to start,” Paul calls out from the outside. Rick grabs one more beer for when he finishes the current one and heads to the garden without looking back. He joins Beth and Carl who’s got Judith now. Michonne and Shane are nowhere to be found, which explains why the little princess is with Carl at least. 

“I think they’re making out behind the tool shed,” Carl informs Rick before he even asks.

“Good for them,” Rick says and sits down on the free space on the bench next to the kids. 

“We’re going to take Judith home after the fireworks,” Beth announces, smiling as Jude yawns powerfully and manages to get drool on everyone in the process.

“Good idea. I’ll probably go with you,” Rick agrees. 

“What? No,” Carl protests. “Dad. You gotta stay. Have some fun without the kids. What are you, fifty years old? Live a little.”

“Why, you want the house to yourselves or what?” Rick asks suspiciously. He knows Carl’s got a giant crush on Beth, but he didn’t think it was at  _ that _ stage. Carl’s not a little boy anymore, but he’s still a bit too young for  _ that _ , and Beth should know better.

“Actually, yes,” Beth says, grinning. “We’ve got plans. Zombie-related plans, just before you think something weird. We just want to use your Netflix subscription. So, you know. Don’t come back before midnight at the earliest.”

Groaning, Rick rolls his eyes. Of course. Zombies. He should’ve known. These two are probably going to spend most of the night binge-watching that blasted TV series. He’s pretty sure Beth’s got a soft spot for one of the characters on the show, and Carl’s all for the gory action. Really, the kids keeping Rick out of the house for zombies might just be the toughest blow-off in his life, ever.

“Yeah, fine. School’s out, you guys do whatever you want. Just make sure Judy’s properly tucked in,” he decides.

The kids don’t reply because that’s when the fireworks go off. It’s not a big display like those for the Fourth of July or anything, but it’s still a nice way to mark the beginning of summer. It takes about ten minutes during which Rick alternates between watching Judith’s obvious joy at the bright lights and taking long swigs of beer which he doesn’t even like very much. By the time the show ends, Rick’s on his fifth bottle and his head is buzzing. It’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Being drunk seldom is. Damn, he should’ve eaten something, like the barbecue specials before they were all gone or something. It wouldn’t have hit him this hard.

Beth and Carl leave with Judith after Rick kisses his sleepy daughter good-night, and Rick decides to play the part of the friendly neighbor for a time instead of looking for Daryl again. He reckons the man can take care of himself and, well, he’s probably out having fun with Paul or whatever. 

“Hey, Rick… hi,” Jessie says, approaching him when he’s totally not brooding by a patch of early-blooming daylilies. He must be looking stupid, sitting in the grass and admiring flowers. They’re a pretty blood-red variety and they’re almost in full bloom already. Rick’s considering watering them with his leftover beer so they’d die. Maybe destroying something beautiful would make him feel better. 

“Hi, Jess,” he replies distractedly. He downs the beer instead and looks up at the woman. “Anything you wanted?”

“Oh, just to talk,” Jessie smiles, then takes a seat on the ground next to him. It’s not a good idea, her white jeggings are definitely going to stain from the grass, but it’s not like she’s given Rick the opportunity to warn her. “So, how are you? I haven’t seen you around much.”

“What? I’ve been around all the time,” Rick says, frowning.

“I meant in my salon,” Jessie clarifies, chuckling. She’s got a bottle of wine in her hand which she takes a generous swig out of. She holds the wine in her mouth for a moment, grimaces at the taste and then swallows slowly, making an even more disgusted face. She clears her throat, still frowning, then says: “Your hair is becoming a bit much, isn’t it? And the beard.”

“Everybody says that about the beard,” Rick admits, shrugging. He runs a hand through his hair which, yeah, he gets what she means. He’s becoming more unkempt than Daryl was at the beginning  with each passing day. Soon enough, he’s going to look like the homeless one. 

But Daryl said he didn’t see a problem with Rick’s beard. It’s got to count for something.

“Well, if your boyfriend likes it, I guess you’re fine,” Jessie says like she’s reading Rick’s mind. She smiles brightly, then motions to the wine bottle like she’s asking if Rick wants some. Rick wants some. 

The wine is marginally better than the beer, though Rick can’t say he’s really fond of it either. It’s too sweet and not sweet enough at the same time. He supposes he’s just not much of a drinker, no matter the type of booze. 

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” he says, addressing Jessie’s words somewhat belatedly because he thinks they might need the clarification. 

“You don’t? Huh,” the woman looks at him in confusion. “I’m sorry, I thought… Well, Jesus told me, I mean, Paul told me you did. He was sort of grumpy about it, too, said he wished it was him. And what with that Daryl living with you, I thought-”

“Well he was wrong, and uh. You were wrong, sorry,” Rick interrupts firmly. “No boyfriend, no girlfriend, not looking. Just trying to get by in this brave new world.”

Jessie laughs. “Ha. Okay. Seriously, same. I mean, I was looking,” she admits easily, “I was looking at you, actually. At first, right after Pete. I didn’t think I could do it, you know? Being a single mom to two boys, finding a job… I’ve been a housewife for so long, I thought that was everything I was and I convinced myself I needed a husband. I needed you.”

“What changed your mind?” Rick asks, passing her back the wine. 

Jessie hums thoughtfully, then smiles at a memory. “You know what, I think it was Eric Raleigh. You know the Raleighs, don’t you? Of course you do, heard how you got Daryl a job at Aaron’s so Aaron could stay at home more,” she nods. “Well, me and Eric, we went to styling school together, you see, took some of the same courses. So we talk sometimes when we meet in the park or something. One day, we were in the mall, just browsing in the baby isle, and Eric said I looked good. Said being single was obviously working out for me.”

“Was it?” 

“Yes, I think it was. Still is,” Jessie decides. “Eric and Aaron helped me open my salon, you know? They lent me the money. I wouldn’t have been able to take a loan from the bank, I had no previous work experience, no income except for the child support and alimony… They took this huge risk for me, simply because they knew I studied to be a hairdresser. I’m just happy it worked out. And,” she looks at Rick, eyes twinkling, “somehow, becoming a woman about her own business cured me of my infatuation with you. No offense.”

“None taken, I’m actually really happy for you,” Rick assures her, grinning. “Aaron and Eric are something else, aren’t they?” He asks, thinking about how Aaron took Daryl in despite not knowing who the guy even was, besides what Rick told him. Seems like the Raleighs aren’t afraid of taking risks. Well, figures: they wouldn’t be proudly out, married, raising a child together if they were the types to be afraid. 

They wouldn’t be as happy as they are if they were cowards like Rick. 

“You ever regretted something so much you wished you could turn back time?” Rick asks, accepting the bottle Jessie passes him again. He takes a long swig and this time, the taste doesn’t even bother him. It’s better than the bitterness of that dark place where his thoughts are heading, anyhow.

“Not really,” Jessie says, wrapping her arms around her knees. “For a while, I regretted ever marrying Pete, but… It wasn’t always bad, and I got my boys out of it. So I’d still do it, even if I knew what kind of man he was. Why? You have something like that?”

Rick sighs and wants to say  _ yes _ , because what if he never invited Daryl to his home? What if he never did anything but thank the homeless man who saved his daughter and just went about his day? What if he let it go after the same homeless man told him to his face to avoid him? If he only weren’t so damn persistent, wouldn’t he be all the happier for it now? After all, he wouldn’t have gotten to know Daryl then. He wouldn’t have fallen in love.

But, just like Jessie said… it wasn’t all bad, was it? Or rather, most of it was good. Watching Daryl open up to his family, seeing him interact with Judith and Carl, those are good memories. Cooking together, cleaning up after meals, watching Shark Week with Michonne, losing miserably to Daryl on game nights. The Disney princess song Daryl sang to Judith that one time. The peach pie incident. The cat named Cat. That first time Daryl rode Rick’s bike. The magnet on the fridge. Almost kissing in the kitchen on a Sunday evening. 

“Nah, I really don’t regret anything, do I,” he says, shaking his head and smiling. 

“Hey guys, ‘m I interruptin’?” Daryl asks, coming up from the direction of the house like he’s sensed Rick thinking about him. He’s so beautiful in the dim lighting of the garden lanterns. Like a pretty dream. His eyes glimmer so enticingly. Even the way he sways a little on his feet like he’s a bit too drunk for proper balance is endearing. Rick wants to do  _ things _ to him.

“No, nothing to interrupt,” Jessie replies, giggling softly. “We were just catching up on gossip about friends we have in common. I’ll get going though, I’m sure my Ron’s fed up with playing babysitter for the night,” she gets up. “It was fun, Rick. And for what it’s worth,” she pauses, looks at Daryl, looks down at Rick and smiles. “I think I know why you’re not looking anymore. You’ve already found what you need, haven’t you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just winks and heads towards the house. She calls without turning back, “It was nice meeting you, Daryl!” and then she’s gone.

Daryl takes her place on the grass and frowns at Rick. “What was that ‘bout?” He asks curiously.

Rick takes another swig of the wine. “Nothing important,” he says. “How’re you? Having any fun? Where’ve you lost Jesus?”

“Paul? Done went home like, an hour ago,” Daryl shrugs indifferently. “Spent time with Aaron an’ Eric, mostly. Eric’s a fun guy, ain’t ‘e? Kinda over the top, in yer face widda rainbow, Pride-flag wavin’ type, but fun. ‘s got a great sense of humor. Could prob’ly drink everyone ‘ere under the table an’ ask for ‘nother round like it ain’t nothin’.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees. He thinks it’s an accurate assessment. He hasn’t talked to Eric much over the years he’s known Aaron, he never visited them at home after all, but the few times they met in the garage are enough for Rick to know Daryl’s quite certainly right. Daryl’s often right. About many things. 

“Think I’m drunk,” Rick announces and it makes him laugh. 

Daryl chuckles. “No shit,” he says, shaking his head. Like he’s any better. “Yer wasted, Grimes. Betcha can’t even stand up straight.” 

“Ain’t straight,” Rick tells him, but scrambles to his feet, spilling some of the wine into the daylilies. It’s better than the beer. Maybe they won’t die. He giggles hysterically and sways, almost falls; but then Daryl’s warm arms are around him, steadying him and keeping him upright.

“Yer a dumbass,” Daryl informs him and he sounds so fond. Rick hates it. And loves it. Loves him, so fucking much. How can he be so in love with a guy he barely even knows? They’ve only met like two months ago. Two months! But then again, he supposes he knows enough. Knows how Daryl’s the most caring man in the world, so soft and adoring towards Rick’s kids, so kind and trusting and beautiful. He knows enough.

“Let’s getcha home, yea?” Daryl mutters and escorts Rick through the garden and the house. Rick doesn’t resist, mostly because he’s not entirely sure he could remain vertical if Daryl stopped holding him. Damn wine. It didn’t seem so strong. 

He closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, he’s in his bedroom. More specifically, he’s in his own bed. Frowning, Rick burrows deeper into the covers and lets his eyes slide closed again. He’s so damn sleepy and his head is fuzzy. He remembers talking to someone about stuff. Something about rainbows. And about Daryl? No. To Daryl, then? No, he doesn’t think so. Daryl never talks to him. No, that’s not true; Daryl talks to him a lot, just never says what Rick wishes he would say. If only Daryl told him things. Right to his face, the truth, no matter how hard. If only Daryl told him, Rick could stop running around in circles with his dumb musings that lead nowhere. 

_Before_ _what_ , he thinks, recalling the conversation in Tara and Denise’s kitchen. Daryl never thought about romance _before_. What did it mean? _Who_ did Daryl mean? _Before Paul_ , Rick finishes the thought again, like he did back then in that kitchen, but in his mind, it doesn’t sound right, it sounds awful, that can’t be it. Paul can’t be it. _Please, please. Before what?_

There’s a movement somewhere, maybe inside Rick’s bedroom, maybe outside. Maybe in the space between dream and reality. Rick hears the sound of soft footsteps on floor boards, and then:

“Ya sleepin’?” Daryl asks in a whisper that’s very close, almost like he’s standing next to Rick’s bed. Rick wants to tell him no, he’s not asleep, he can’t sleep until he solves the puzzle, but his mind is full of cotton candy and spiderwebs and other fluffy things, his eyes won’t open and his vocal cords don’t seem to really work. 

It’s for the best, as it turns out, because taking his silence for confirmation Rick’s indeed asleep, Daryl sighs and continues to talk in a low voice: “I done fucked up, Rick,” he says. He remains quiet for a few minutes after that and Rick can almost see him biting his thumbnail nervously. “Done sumthin’ stupid that gon’ fuck everythin’ up. Ya know? ‘s not supposed to be like this. I ain’t been tryin’ to be yer friend, ain’t been tryin’ to… to like ya, ‘s not m’place to like ya, but then ya gone an’ smiled at me all pretty, an’ ‘twas it, innit? ‘s been like a fuckin’ dream all this damn time, bein’ widdya, like I ’s a part of yer family. ‘s felt so real, ya felt so real, to me,” he pauses, breathing heavily like saying the words is physically exhausting to him, or maybe painful. 

Rick feels the other man’s hand brush against his cheek, warm fingers stroke his overgrown beard. It’s pleasant, but Rick doesn’t make a sound to acknowledge it. He doesn’t know if he could. He’s not sure he’s actually still awake. It feels like a fantasy. A daydream. Or a nightmare, because if it’s not real, if nothing of it is real, if Daryl’s not really here-

“Love ya so much, ya dumbass,” Daryl whispers, and everything just  _ clicks _ , everything makes so much sense suddenly, even that stupid row they had after Rick assumed Daryl had a problem with Rick maybe liking men. He didn’t, did he? He just had a problem with Rick saying he liked hippie Jesus  _ instead of him _ ; and Rick, paralyzed, elated, terrified, decides he must be asleep. There’s no way Rick was such a fool for such a Goddamn long time. No way he got it all so wrong.

“I love you,” Daryl says again, firm and reassuring like he can hear Rick’s unvoiced doubts, “an’ I know I‘s not whacha want or deserve, Rick, I ain’t no good ‘nuff for someone like ya. Wish I were, but I ain’t, an’ ya deserve someone good ‘nuff. To make ya happy. But, just… just this once, I need,” he trails off and sighs, a tiny sound filled with longing. 

Then Rick hears some shuffling and he feels Daryl’s warm breath on his face, and Daryl leans down to kiss him on the lips like a Disney prince kissing his sleeping princess; but unlike a princess, Rick doesn’t awaken from this most wonderful dream, he concentrates on the feeling of the soft lips against his own and lets his heart skip a beat, and he doesn’t open his eyes because then the dream would shatter into a thousand little pieces-

And then the soft pressure of Daryl’s lips on his is gone, and Rick finally braves a look into the darkness of the room but Daryl’s also gone, and Rick’s left staring into the void, wondering if this really happened at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely fucked up my schedule, so new rules: This story will now be updated three times a week. Sundays, Tuesdays/Wednesdays, and Fridays. From this point, there are still 13 chapters left to go, unless something changes and I need to make it more. I hope everyone is as excited as I am about where this story is heading~


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the rating change!

Preparing food with a hangover is much more unpleasant of a chore than Rick is used to, especially when the hangover is actually still accompanied by the remnants of intoxication. In other words, he’s still drunk, but that’s not all. He feels like his head is going to explode from the excess of cotton fluff wrapped around his brain, his legs are wobbly, and there’s a stupid party song about kissing stuck in his head. As if he needs juvenile lyrics to remind him how much he already thinks about kissing. Kissing Daryl, to be exact. Kissing Daryl who may or may not have been in his room last night. 

_ It was probably a dream _ , Rick thinks, flipping the beef burgers on the bigger pan. His stomach flips right along with the burgers. 

_ There’s no way he said he loved me _ , he continues to think as he slices the onions which are a very legit excuse for the tears in his eyes.

_ Oh my God, what if it wasn’t a dream? _ He wonders, layering the vegetables and cheese in the bread rolls he bought in the bakery just around the corner from the park. He hopes they’re good. He’d never been in that bakery before. 

“Morning! I smell burgers for breakfast, so extravagant,” Michonne says, arriving in the kitchen at nine-thirteen, appearing for all the world to be absolutely relaxed and fresh as a daisy. She looks over at Rick, her expression changing to worried in an instant. “Oh, damn, Grimes, you look like hell.”

“Yeah, thanks, good morning to you too,” Rick replies with a sigh. “I’m never drinking again. If I ever try to have booze, shoot me in the head. Even if it’s a single beer.”

“I’m definitely not shooting you,” Michonne informs him, rolling her eyes, “you’re more entertaining to watch than Comedy Central. Couldn’t find so much drama even on RuPaul’s.”

“I think I told Daryl I’m gay,” Rick mutters because he has a hazy memory of something to that effect. Maybe he didn’t say exactly that, but something similar. He doesn’t remember Daryl’s reaction, though. Or the circumstances. Was it before or after the wine? Damn if he knows. “Anyway, how was your night?”

“Fine,” Michonne says. “Better than yours, it seems.”

“With Shane?” Rick wonders out loud and yelps when Michonne throws an apple at him.

“Not like you think, pervert,” she laughs. “We went to the park after the fireworks. He wanted to see if there would be shooting stars. I tried telling him it’s not the season yet, but Shane’s a stubborn bastard, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees. “Did you? See shooting stars?”

“Nope. We talked a lot, though. Turns out our dear Officer Walsh isn’t such a total loser after all. Even though his pick up lines are the literal worst,” Michonne concludes.

Rick hums. “Well, he gets them from his porn, so I wouldn’t expect poetry.”

One by one, the others start gathering in the dining room. Beth comes down first, then Carl, then Daryl with Judith in his arms and Cat at his heel. Rick wonders at the feeling of relief flooding his chest, like he subconsciously expected Daryl not to show up, maybe to disappear forever. Thoughtful, he feeds the tomcat first, then finishes the burgers for everyone, including Beth’s vegan burger.Then he makes pancakes for Judith, using the dough he’s already prepared yesterday and kept in the fridge. 

Daryl sits at the table, Jude still in his lap as he distracts her from hunger by tickling her. Rick enjoys watching Daryl with his daughter most of all. It’s amazing how naturally it comes for Daryl to play with the toddler, how easily Judith makes the rather moody man laugh. She just has to pull on his hair or call him  _ Da _ in that cutesie voice of hers and Daryl’s all happy like a clam. Like now; Jude wiggles in the man’s lap and points at random items on the table, naming them in her secret baby language, and Daryl chuckles at each increasingly strange aggregation of vowels and single consonants she puts together to create the names. The sound of his soft laughter makes something in Rick’s chest hurt, but in a good way.

_ Did he kiss me last night? _ He wonders idly and carries a plate of pancakes to the table. He can almost feel the ghostly sensation of the man’s lips against his own. Was it a dream?

“Yer not gon’ eat with us?” Daryl asks, grabbing Judith’s fork and cutting off a piece of the pancake. He blows on the piece, brings it to his lips and touches, frowns when it’s still too warm and blows again. Satisfied, he dips it in creamy strawberry yogurt and feeds it to the little girl who squeals in obvious delight. 

Rick shakes his head. “My stomach’s not up to the task,” he explains apologetically. “I was actually going to go sleep a bit more. I’ve got most of the stuff ready for Carl’s little party, so…”

“Don’t worry about it, dad, if there’s anything left to finish, we can do it,” Carl promises. “I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you.”

“My hero,” Rick replies, deadpan. 

Carl grins around a mouthful of burger. Rick smiles, then gives Judith a peck on the top of the head. Daryl looks at him like he wants to say something but ultimately decides not to. Rick smiles at him, too, kisses the top of his head as well for good measure, nods in satisfaction, and goes upstairs.

Back in bed, he buries himself in the pillows and blankets, gets comfortable and closes his eyes before he realizes he’s got a little problem: he’s not sleepy at all. Instead, he’s sort of dizzy, very confused about life in general, probably still somewhat drunk, and incredibly, unbelievably, inexplicably horny. Like, can’t-think-straight, adolescent-level horny. It started right when he lay down: most of the blood in his body went straight down to his cock as soon as his head hit the pillow, and his mind flooded with vaguely pleasant, almost domestic images like Daryl feeding Judith pancakes, Daryl drying the washed dishes and placing them in stacks on the shelves, Daryl cutting vegetables into irregular shapes, Daryl sucking on his thumb. Nothing sexual about the thoughts, nothing lust-inducing, just Daryl being Daryl: and yet, Rick’s body goes rigid with desire. He can’t even remember the last time he felt like this. Could it be some mind-numbing, strange side-effect of the hangover? But he’d never heard anybody mention a very insistent hard-on when talking about hangovers. Shane would’ve told him. He’s not the kind of guy to shy away from sharing too much information. 

Then again, maybe Rick’s just special and reacts to hangover like this. He wouldn’t know. It’s his first time being drunk and, consequently, hungover. 

_ Speaking of first times _ , he thinks and remembers Daryl’s lips on his last night. Just a soft touch, barely anything at all, the lightest press of lips on his own, but it’s enough to make him groan, arousal flooding his senses. He’s still not sure if it was a dream or if it really happened, but it doesn’t really matter because his mind’s already working regardless. He closes his eyes and imagines what could’ve been if he reacted to Daryl’s kiss instead of just letting it happen. If he took hold of Daryl’s ridiculously broad shoulders and pulled him on top of himself, if he kissed back and pressed his tongue against Daryl’s, if he deepened the kiss and found out what Daryl tastes like… Rick thinks about the way Daryl smells and tries to translate it into what his flavor might be, but he doesn’t have enough brainpower for such a complicated effort so instead, he just shoves his dominant hand right into his sweatpants and wraps his fingers around his hard cock. He moans softly in deep satisfaction at the pleasure such simple touch evokes. 

How much better would it be if it were Daryl’s fingers around his dick instead?  _ God _ , Rick thinks and pushes his other hand against his mouth to muffle the noise he’s about to make. He’s pretty sure nobody’s listening by the door, but still, he doesn’t want anybody to hear him by accident and anyway, his mind supplies him with a really convincing rendition of Daryl’s low voice telling him to keep it quiet and Rick’s cock twitches in his hand at how insanely sexy that would be. Daryl’s hands touching him, Daryl’s lips trailing kisses down his body, Daryl’s voice so deep and sexy in his ear, and that would just be the beginning. Rick’s seen enough of Daryl putting things in his mouth to know how this would go; eyes squeezed tightly shut, he can almost see with his mind’s eye the absolute vision Daryl would make between his thighs, licking his lips before he would put that pretty mouth of his all over Rick’s cock, moaning around it like he’d never wanted anything more than this. He’d let Rick thrust up, he’d let Rick fuck his mouth, and Rick would grab a fistful of Daryl’s hair to keep his head in place, and he’d be so close, so close, but he wouldn’t let himself come, not yet, and then-

_ And then what? _

Blinking up at the ceiling, surprised at the insistent little voice demanding an answer before his fantasy can proceed, Rick slows down the movement of his hand on his cock and frowns. This is stupid. He’s almost painfully hard, he’s actually  _ leaking _ , he’s close to bursting in his sweatpants and he’s got a hand around his dick already. There’s no reason at all to be stopping now. But he’s stopping. Because… he’s run out of imagination, and all of a sudden, the whole fantasy falls apart. 

“Damn it,” he mutters unhappily. He should’ve just come in imaginary-Daryl’s imaginary mouth or something. He still could; hopeful, he closes his eyes again and gives his cock a few long strokes, but while it’s still good, he just can’t get back into it at all. Instead of this insanely hot daydream, it’s like all those times he jerked off in the shower: a practical, non-emotional way to relieve some pressure, nothing else. That’s not what he wanted. 

He knows exactly why the fantasy failed to get him off. 

“What the fuck do two dudes do with each other?” He asks the ceiling. It doesn’t hold the answer to his incredibly important question, though. His phone just might. 

Removing his hand from inside his sweats, Rick reaches for the smartphone and opens the internet browser. He’s not sure how to start his search. Does he just type in  _ gay porn _ and hope for the best? 

Feeling vaguely embarrassed like he’s a damn virgin at almost forty years old, Rick decides he can’t do this on his own. He needs help. From an expert. He only knows one expert on porn. He texts Shane, short and to the point:

_ Gay porn sites. Now. Go. _

He doesn’t really know what to expect besides a customary “what the fuck, dude,” but what he actually gets is a website address, along with:

_ tell any1 u got it from me & ill end u _

Grinning like he’s just won the blackmail material lottery, Rick stretches back against the pillow, plugs in the headphones and enters the provided website. He creates a free account under fake credentials because he’s not a complete fool, then starts browsing, having no idea what to look for in the literal sea of naughty videos. The categories don’t really help.  _ There should be a beginner’s guide _ , he thinks unhappily and considers actually googling what the category labels even mean. What the hell is a  _ twink _ or  _ barebacking _ ? He can imagine what  _ orgy _ means, of course, unless it’s a codename for something entirely different in gay porn terminology, and some of the others are pretty straight-forward. Which should he choose, though? Damn, this is overwhelming. He should’ve done some research beforehand instead of putting it off until last minute and hoping for the best.

He taps on the first video in the recommended section, one which is tagged with multiple labels such as the elusive  _ twink _ , something called  _ rimming _ and the pretty obvious  _ anal _ which Rick was vaguely aware people do. Even heterosexual couples, apparently, but Rick always thought it was somewhat maybe a bit disgusting and never wanted to try it… before. Well, this is research, so. For the sake of scientific knowledge, he taps  _ play _ and waits for the video to buffer.

The premise of the video is as dumb as any other porn he’s ever seen: a young, athletic man is watching TV, the TV stops working, the young man calls a repairman, the repairman arrives and bends the young man over the table. Pretty standard. When the repairman pulls down the young dude’s pants and boxers to reveal a shapely behind, Rick kind of expects to see dick-in-ass action filmed from different angles, and he even thinks it might be a little bit hot if he imagines his dick and Daryl’s ass, or Daryl’s dick and his ass, whichever works, and yeah, that’s a pretty bold direction to be taking this whole fantasy train, but it’s not like he’s going to tell anyone-

The repairman kneels behind the young dude, spreads his buttcheeks, presses his face between them and licks his asshole - and Rick’s mind goes  _ what the fuck _ . He locks the phone and throws it under the pillow. What… what? What the hell did he just see? 

_ Okay, that’s just gross _ , he thinks, shaking his head incredulously. He stares at the ceiling, hoping again to find the answers to all the questions in the universe painted up there. The prime question: what the everloving fuck. Why would anybody do  _ that _ ? For that matter, why would a video of something like that be considered even remotely sexy? Like, Rick can understand going down on someone, oral sex is all fun and games, he’s done it for Lori, he’s had it done to him. But, not  _ that _ ! It’s not natural. It’s not hygienic. It’s not… it’s not…

His dick’s still hard, though, and his overactive imagination easily supplies him with an image of Daryl spread out like that. Apparently, Rick might be a prude, but his mind is thirsty as fuck and kinkier than he ever thought, at least when it comes to nasty fantasies concerning a man who lives with him and plays with his kids on a daily basis. 

Well,  _ now _ he feels guilty.

He feels even guiltier when he retrieves the smartphone from under the pillow, unlocks it and resumes the video. He tries to push away all thoughts of how unsanitary it is to put a mouth down there; it proves much easier than he expected when he concentrates instead on the sounds the young man is emitting due to what the repairman is doing to him. The young man’s soft grunts of pleasure go straight to Rick’s cock and Rick tentatively but somewhat hopefully puts his right hand back on the shaft but doesn’t stroke just yet. He keeps watching as the young man pushes back against the repairman’s mouth, and then he closes the tab, embarrassed and repulsed and, weirdly enough, a little more than a little turned on when all of a sudden, the young man whines and his hips buckle, all because the repairman puts his tongue inside. 

No, fuck, this is too much. 

_ I don’t think I’m gay after all _ , he texts Shane, taking entirely too long to type the message because his right hand is still in his pants. Which might be kind of awkward. He’s not thinking about Shane in any sort of sexual setting, though. And he’s not jerking off, so it’s probably fine. He’s just holding his cock. For, like, reassurance. He’s pretty sure it needs some.

Shane replies almost immediately, but he’s not very helpful at all. He asks:  _ grimes r u still drunk?  _

And Rick groans in frustration.  _ Maybe. Mostly confused as hell. _

Shane’s next text is about as useful as the last: _ for the record grimes i h8 u & also ur def gay or bi? or w/e anyway ur def in2 dudes _

_ Got scared of the first video I watched though _ , Rick informs him. 

_ the fuck was it  _

Rick’s not sure if he should tell him, but since he’s gone so far, he decides, what the fuck, he can traumatize his best friend all he wants. Serves Shane right for all the times he overshared in excruciating detail about his conquests in the past.  _ Guy was licking the other guy’s asshole _ , he types. If there’s a secret FBI agent monitoring his texts, Rick’s sure the poor guy’s traumatized as well. 

It takes Shane a little longer to reply this time. Rick vaguely wonders if maybe Shane’s too disgusted, but it’s more likely he’s just busy. He is at work, after all. But still, the return series of messages arrives and it’s in Shane’s usual bold style:

_ lol ur such a pussy didnt think a lil butt play would scare u i mean ur mans got nice ass deserves a lil appreciation _

_ forget i said that _

_ u know what i got work 2 do  _

_ dont write me again _

_ seriously tho get over it man theres ass 2 mouth action in het porn 2 lmao ur so vanilla _

_ also good luck but find urself a new gay guru man cuz im def not it _

So, totally unhelpful. Rick sighs and outs the phone down, then jerks his cock a few times without conviction. He thinks about the repairman and what the guy was doing to the young man’s ass, and yeah, still not very appealing, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that since he’s no longer straight, he should enjoy such stuff. God, what if he can’t get over this psychological blockade? What if he’s not really into anything two guys could do together and his body is actually straight even though his mind is not? 

Or maybe, more likely, he really is a prude. Well, Lori was always the more adventurous one in their marriage. 

Would Daryl be open and adventurous? Or is he as shy and reserved in bed as he is normally, all pretty blushes and averting his eyes? He thinks about what Daryl said yesterday. Not in Rick’s bedroom because that might not have happened at all for all he knows, even though he prefers to believe it did. He thinks about what Daryl said at the party when they had beer together in the kitchen and waited for the fireworks.  _ Ain’t never been interested in romance _ , Daryl had said. Rick assumes it to mean, not with women, not with men. Did that mean he never did this with anyone? Hadn’t he had anybody touch him intimately, had nobody’s hands wrapped around that thick, long cock of his - and yeah, Rick knows all about what Daryl’s cock looks like, he remembers it vividly, and how the fuck could he  _ not  _ have wanted to run his fingers up and down the entire length of it from the start? Even just thinking about it now, Rick’s fingers twitch around his own cock and he licks his lips. He closes his eyes and does his best to recreate that scene from long ago when he was in the shower with a very naked, very vulnerable Daryl; but it seems wrong, the power imbalance, the pain, so he works around it, uses his imagination to remove all the  _ hurt _ and  _ helpless _ parts of the other man from when he was injured and replaces them with  _ eager _ and  _ needy _ . And it works exceptionally well, this memory supplemented with fantasy; Rick moves his hand up and down his cock and imagines it’s Daryl’s hand instead, inexperienced but exploratory and curious, and he thinks how he would stroke Daryl’s pretty cock in a matching rhythm, swallowing all of Daryl’s gasps, all the noises the other man wouldn’t be able to contain, in an open-mouthed kiss. They’d jerk each other off, fast and good, Daryl’s whole body on display, tattoos and scars, hard muscle and sensitive skin, everything only for Rick to see, and just before it was over, Rick would sink to his knees in front of Daryl, and he would take Daryl’s cock in his mouth, he’d take it so deep he’d  _ fucking choke on it _ , and Daryl would moan his name, like a prayer, like he’d die if Rick didn’t touch him, and-

All of a sudden, the images in Rick’s mind and the fast rhythm of his hand on his dick are too much, and: “F-fuck,” he swears as his hips arch off of the bed and the world explodes into the hot-white blankness of pleasure.

So, yeah, Rick decides as he slowly climbs down from the absolutely amazing post-orgasmic high, he’s definitely one hundred percent gay for Daryl alright. And now he knows where to start if he ever has the opportunity to go for some sexy stuff. He might be a prude who’s not ready for, uh,  _ butt play  _ just yet, but he’s definitely ready for blowjobs. Giving them. Receiving them. Whichever. Having his mouth on Daryl’s cock is apparently something he could do, now. That’s progress, that’s great improvement over the initial  _ not gay _ and the  _ what if he doesn’t like me _ later and, especially, over the recent  _ what do I do in bed with a dude.  _ So he’s got all that sorted out. He’s fine. He’s not straight and he’s fine.

The only thing left to do is make it happen, and for that, Rick Grimes needs to  _ fucking get a grip already _ . On his courage, not his dick. He’s going to do it. Soon. Very soon. As soon as he’s completely sober, actually. 

He falls asleep with his hand still down his sweatpants and he doesn’t even care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pretty much pointless... but I bet Rick didn't mind :D  
> Are you guys surprised? <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl's birthday movie night. Rick loves movie nights.

When Rick finally deems himself sober and well-rested enough to rejoin everyone downstairs, it’s just after seven in the evening which means he slept through the whole day. He takes a shower to clean off the remnants of the booze-stench as well as the dried sticky mess between his thighs, then brushes his teeth and gets dressed in something presentable before going downstairs. The living room is full of teenagers. Rick recognizes Enid, Clementine, and Patrick out of Carl’s friends from school. Surprisingly, in spite of the age difference between them, Beth is also there and doesn’t appear to mind the company of the younger kids at all, judging from how she’s laughing at something Enid is saying. The whole group is playing a zombie game on the console, or at least Carl is playing and the others seem quite content watching him shoot the walking corpses. Seriously, what is it with kids and zombies these days? Rick almost misses Carl’s weird obsession with all things Harry Potter, if only because they didn’t seem to involve that much gore.

It’s Carl’s birthday, though, so Rick makes himself scarce and leaves the group of teenagers to their fun after saying hi and handing him gifts from himself and Carol; he doesn’t even wait to see his son’s reaction to the presents, though he can predict the brand new motorcycle helmet and handwritten coupon for a “self-chosen magnet” from him and the detailed 1:8 scale Triumph Thunderbird 900 model from Carol are going to be appreciated. Instead, he heads towards the kitchen where, unsurprisingly, he finds Michonne, Shane, and Daryl with Judith in his lap, all four of them engaged in a card game. 

“Yer cheatin’, lil’ ass-kicker,” Daryl mutters gruffly when Judith picks two cards from his hand and cheerfully throws them onto the table. The cards are a Queen of Hearts and a Ten of Spades. Rick can’t even tell what game is being played, but whatever it is, the cards don’t seem all that relevant to the table situation. Daryl looks so done, but also so fond, it’s adorable. 

Rick feels like he should be awkward because of what he fantasized about in his bedroom earlier, but he isn’t. He’s relaxed, instead, and very content, and looking at Daryl gives him a very pleasant, warm and throbbing sensation somewhere in the heart area.

“Oh, hi there, sleeping beauty,” Michonne greets Rick once she notices him. 

Shane looks at him with the widest shit-eating grin in the world. “How was your sleepy time?” He asks in what he probably thinks is a very subtle tone even though his eye is twitching weirdly as he semi-successfully suppresses the urge to wink lewdly. 

Rick glares at him. “Absolutely splendid,” he informs his very best friend who probably also doubles for the saddest clown in the circus, what with the sense of humor he displays. “What’re you guys playing?”

“Strip poker,” Michonne announces. “We’re trying to eat chicken strips and Judith pokes them. She also pokes us sometimes,” she explains to Rick’s spluttering confusion. 

Rick chuckles and pretends he wouldn’t absolutely love to join a game of strip poker with Daryl playing. He’s not much of a poker player, but damn it all if he wouldn’t play the best games of his life trying to get Daryl out of the black jeans and well-fitting t-shirt the man’s wearing. Yeah, he’s not thinking about that at all. Instead, he sits at the table in the chair next to Daryl’s and ruffles his daughter’s hair. 

She flaps her arms like she’s a little bird and exclaims, “Da!”, which Rick takes to mean she’s demanding to go to him. Daryl gives her up with a small smile. 

“Been missin’ ‘er daddy,” he says warmly. “But she’s a good girl, ain'tcha, lil’ ass-kicker? Ate ‘er lunch and dinner like a lil’ champ.”

“Thanks for taking care of her,” Rick replies, beaming at Daryl. To his surprise and absolute delight, the other man flushes an adorable pink. 

“It was a joint effort, I’ll have you know,” Shane supplies and then winces when Michonne apparently kicks him under the table for interrupting the heartwarming moment or something like that. “What? It’s the truth! Dixon here may be the baby mama, but he wasn’t the one she puked on, now was he?”

“Well, Walsh, she wouldna puked if ya didn’ twirl ‘er ‘round after she done ate,” Daryl says, shrugging like he’s not trying to stop himself from laughing out loud even though he obviously is. He doesn’t seem to be offended about being called Judith’s mama. Maybe he just didn’t register it as anything but a jab from the guy who throws insults left and right like a bag of dicks.

“Pack off, Dixon,” Shane snaps at him, but there’s no real fire in his tone. He’s more amused than irritated. At least he’s finally learning not to swear, instead getting more and more creative at substituting curse words with something more innocent when he and Daryl hurl insults and jabs at each other. The swear jar is almost completely full anyway, so it’s fine. Rick is ready to double the collected amount out of his pocket if it means there’s a chance his daughter won’t be learning to cuss any time soon.

“We built a swing in the backyard, by the way,” Michonne says, folding her cards since they’re obviously not playing anymore. “Hope you don’t mind? The big tree has that branch, it seemed just perfect."

Rick grins. “I had this idea before, just never got around to doing it,” he admits. “Is it like, a baby swing? For Judith’s use only?” 

“Nope, good for adults too,” Shane announces smugly. “Tested it myself. Twice. Once with Dixon in my lap. Guy weighs about as much as a grizzly bear. Scratches more, though.”

“Choke on a coke,” Daryl says, chucking his hand of cards at Shane who ducks out of the way, laughing like a damn hyena. Judith laughs as well even though she doesn’t understand what’s going on. Michonne looks like she’s going to burst into hysterics from the way she’s trying to hold in her own giggles, and well, Rick can’t help but join in with a chuckle of his own, especially when Daryl looks at him in annoyance or maybe exasperation.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think you’re fat,” Rick assures him, patting his thigh in a completely innocent, purely brotherly manner. If he marvels at how hard and thick the muscle there feels under the palm of his hand, well, that’s his to know and nobody else’s. 

Daryl rolls his eyes like he’s dealing with a bunch of idiots. “Yea, well, good, ‘cause I ain’t.”

“It’s all that beef, man, one look at those arms of yours and a guy’s gotta envy,” Shane says somewhat wistfully, and he all but checks Daryl out very obviously, exaggerating the leering to look like some kind of a perv. “Rick here’s been telling me how he admires your muscles a lot, Dixon. You got any tips for him? For the gym?”

If looks could kill, Shane would have the decency to drop dead under the pointed glare Rick gives him, but alas, he’s still very much alive and entirely too pleased with himself. Unfortunately, Rick can’t do much about it. He tries very bravely not to blush too much, but he’s sure he’s failing. Michonne’s amused expression really doesn’t help. 

Daryl’s face is carefully blank when he looks back at Rick and absent-mindedly licks his lips, likely completely unaware of what the motion does to Rick’s sanity. “Been doin’ lotsa push-ups,” he mutters and Rick can almost hear the bullshit in the man’s subdued tone. And, yeah, there’s no way any amount of push-ups made his arms look like  _ that _ , unless he’s been spending something like twenty hours a day doing them. Push-ups aren’t the miracle exercise to create such musculature, they only work on some parts of the arm if Rick remembers correctly. Now he’s curious what Daryl’s real workout regime must’ve been at one point. And he wonders. He hasn’t seen Daryl exercise over this whole time the man’s been living with them, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening just because Rick didn’t witness it.

He has a sudden vision of Daryl all sweaty, lifting weights, dressed in some baggy pants and a fitted tank top that clings to his body in all the right places. It’s a very nice vision. Very inappropriate, too, for a man who’s got a toddler daughter in his arms. 

“So, the swing. That’s a great idea and I fully approve,” he says, changing the topic and willing his body and mind to behave. “Any other changes you’ve done in the house or the garden when I was dead to the world?”

“Fixed the ladder,” Daryl supplies. “Also, replaced some tools in yer garage.”

“He also repainted the picnic table and mowed the lawn,” Michonne adds. “Daryl’s not fond of sitting around on his ass all day. He tried to help in the kitchen, too, but we didn’t let him. Carl didn’t want him to mess up on the birthday snacks.”

“Hey, I ain’t that bad,” Daryl protests, “I know ‘ow to make ‘em dank sandwiches.”

“You consider bread with mayonnaise, ketchup and a slice of cheese an acceptable sandwich,” Michonne reminds him, deadpan. 

Daryl frowns. “Dunno wha’s wrong with it,” he grumbles. 

Judith yawns so powerfully, a few tears flow down her chubby cheeks. Rick, whose stomach suddenly remembers he hasn’t eaten since last night’s dinner, sighs and gets up. 

“I’ll give little princess here a bath, tuck her in. Can you guys heat me up something? I’m starving, I’d probably gobble up those mayo-ketchup sandwiches like it was the last food in the end of the world,” he says, rocking Judith so that she doesn’t start to fuss. The toddler mumbles random syllables into his chest and Rick nuzzles the top of her head with his nose. “I know, baby, I know. Come on, daddy will sing you a lullaby if you’re good.”

“She kinda likes classic Disney songs,” Daryl calls after him, then bites his lower lip. His face, neck and the tips of his ears redden in embarrassment. Damn, but he’s adorable. Rick makes sure to reward him with the brightest smile anyone’s ever smiled, and he gets a shy little upwards twitch of the corners of Daryl’s lips in answer. Apparently, at some point after doing the naughty to his dirty fantasies of Daryl, Rick’s mind decided to become very zen about everything. He’s not awkward. He’s not jealous anymore, either. He’s nothing if not in love, and yeah, something in him has already decided Daryl’s confession the night before was a thing that actually happened. Rick can’t wait to be alone with Daryl to say it back.

In the upstairs bathroom, Rick sits Judith on the potty because it’s something they’re trying out nowadays. To be honest, it’s proven much messier than diapers so far, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day either, and Rick’s all too happy to see his daughter learn new skills. He can totally respect her wanting to stop relying on diapers, he’s been there, he doesn’t want a repeat experience until he’s at least ninety years old. It would be much more fun if Judith didn’t regularly get herself and her surroundings covered in poop and pee, but that’s just the stages of learning. He’s sure he’s going to miss her baby days, poop and all, once she’s Carl’s age. 

He gives Judith a bath which she’s not very happy about. Usually, she loves bathing, but right now she’s sleepy and some shampoo gets into her eyes, and Rick ends up with a very fussy, very slippery baby he’s having trouble fishing out of the shallow bathtub. She’s fighting him, alright, splashing water in Rick’s face and trying to kick him and simultaneously not drown. Finally, she starts crying when she goes under the water for all of half a second and some of it gets into her nose. At least she allows Rick to pick her up now.

“Sssh, baby, daddy is so sorry, it’s okay, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, hugging the squalling toddler to his chest. She grabs his shirt with her little fists and gets snot and drool all over the front of it, but Rick doesn’t mind because apparently, that’s what she needs to start calming down. He rocks his little princess until all that remains of her unhappiness is a sad little sniffle here or there, and he wraps her in a fluffy towel, then carries her to her bedroom. Once there, he gets her properly diapered-up and dressed in soft cotton pajamas with a kitty print. By the time he’s done, Judith is already half asleep. 

“You’re such a drama queen, sweetheart,” Rick tells her and presses a kiss to her forehead before setting her down in the bed. Judith snuggles into the sheets and is off to dreamland in seconds. She doesn’t even need a lullaby. Chuckling fondly, Rick makes sure all of her favorite plushies are there to stand guard while she sleeps, then he sets up the baby monitor and turns off the light. 

The state of his clothes is miserable, so he returns to his own bedroom and redresses. He goes with a snug-fitting t-shirt and a pair of comfortable sweats. On second thought, he goes back to the bathroom and spends a good twenty minutes clipping his beard so it’s a bit less  _ beastman from the wilds _ and a bit more, well,  _ sexy lumberjack _ . He also brushes his hair, but the curls are getting too long to be tamed that easily. He’s really going to have to think about visiting Jessie’s hair salon one of these days. He doesn’t ponder on the reason he’s trying to pretty up. It’s not like he’s going on a date, just a movie night with his son and friends. Nobody’s going to pay attention to what he looks like, once they sit down to watch the zombie marathon. 

Still.

Finally, he decides he’s presentable and goes downstairs to join the others in the dining room. Michonne, Shane and Daryl are actually playing cards this time, although Rick still doesn’t know the game. When he walks in, Daryl gets up from his seat and retrieves a plate of homemade pizza from the oven which he sets on the table where Rick sat before. 

“‘twas better fresh, but,” he says apologetically, making a vague gesture. 

Rick smiles at him as he takes a seat. “It’s fine. I was worried you’d use the microwave to heat it up, then it’d be nasty,” he jokes.

Daryl flushes pink as Shane laughs, a full-on, booming kind of laughter. “We wanted to,” he announces, “but Dixon here said even a hobo wouldn’t eat microwaved pizza. His words, don’t look at me like that!”

“‘s soggy an’ dry all at once,” Daryl explains with a frown, sitting back down and picking up his cards. 

Rick agrees, then thanks Daryl again, and they share another smile which makes his heart do a backflip in his chest. They’re sitting so close, their knees touch and Rick could just lean in and steal a kiss if he only wanted. He thinks about doing just that, but his stomach has better ideas; the growl it lets out when the smell of food finally registers in his brain is frankly embarrassing. 

But it makes Daryl chuckle, so Rick can live with it.

By the time Carl’s friends start leaving, Rick’s managed to finish his pizza which was, coincidentally, a hundred times better than the Evil Pizza of Doom; he’s also about finished making popcorn. The giant bucket of salt & pepper potato chips he made after eating his dinner is already surrounded by two parasites in the forms of Shane and Daryl. Even their appetites aren’t a match to the amount of snacks Rick’s made sure to make for Carl’s birthday movie night, though. He did spend most of Friday preparing for this like it’s the provisions for an apocalypse, after all. They’ve got sweet snacks, salty snacks, two cakes, about six dozens of chicken strips still left in the fridge after everyone’s had them for lunch today. There’s still pizza left and, of course, copious amount of fruits and fresh veggies, though somehow Rick doesn’t reckon those are going to be very popular tonight.

When the last of Carl’s guests leave, the adults relocate to the living room. Rick makes a few rounds with the snacks while Shane helps Carl set up the Blu-Ray player and Michonne gets everyone their glasses. Beth seems to have taken it upon herself to bring in all of the cushions, pillows and blankets not required elsewhere in the house so that everyone can be comfortable. Arriving with the last bits of food, Rick notices the only spot left for him is on the couch, between Daryl and Michonne. He almost decides to take a chair from the dining room, but then Daryl pats the surface of the couch next to him and Michonne scoots over closer to Shane who seems rather happy with the development. Rick’s left with no choice. It would be weird if he tried to find another seat now that everyone’s looking at him, so, defeated, Rick settles into the spot prepared for him and isn’t surprised to find it almost too good to be true: the warmth radiating off of Daryl, the proximity, the way he can almost hear the other man’s heartbeat, almost feel his breath. 

Carl starts the first movie of the night,  _ something light _ he calls it, and as it turns out, it’s an English comedy about, well, zombies. Nobody’s surprised. Rick follows about the first fifteen minutes of the film and then he loses interest completely because Daryl shifts next to him, likely just to be more comfortable against the armrest. It ends up with them pressed together, arms and sides and thighs touching, almost like they’re cuddling. Rick’s suddenly very glad for the blanket in his lap. 

Instead of watching the movie, he watches Daryl. He can’t tear his gaze away from the way Daryl laughs in genuine amusement at some of the gags on screen. It’s absolutely adorable how Daryl scoffs and calls the characters in the movie  _ fuckin’ amateurs _ as they get killed off one after another -  _ something light my ass _ , Rick thinks with a wince, but nobody else seems to mind the gratuitous amounts of gory death in the movie. And yeah, Rick should be worried about his fourteen-year-old son watching such brutal scenes, but… Well. He’s not. He used to do the same. He used to sneak out to Shane’s house with Carol so they could watch slasher horrors together when they were even younger, and none of the three of them grew up into a psychopathic murderer of teenagers in the woods. At least not that Rick knows of. He’s pretty sure of himself and Shane, but he wouldn’t vouch for Carol.

There’s a particularly gory moment in the movie when all of the characters scream a lot, and it’s a perfect moment for Daryl to slide an arm around Rick’s waist in a movement so sneaky and deceitfully innocent, the man should get an Oscar for best actor or something. The reason the moment is perfect is, the screams and bloody massacre in the movie are a perfect excuse for why Rick yelps in surprise. It’s easy to mask the sound as a reaction to the scary part, after all, and almost nobody looks at him strangely. Well, except for Michonne, but that’s because she knows very well what’s happened and she’s smirking like she’s won a bet or something. Maybe she has. Rick wouldn’t put it past her to make bets about his love life.

He chances a glance at Daryl, but the man is deliberately very busy watching the movie. Well, two can play this game; Rick doesn’t even try to go for subtlety when he shifts so that he can snuggle up to Daryl and lie back sprawled against the man’s broad chest. Daryl’s hand somewhere near his hip twitches before settling on Rick’s side just above the waistband of his jeans; and Rick, in his new position, can clearly hear as Daryl’s breath hitches. God, but it’s so tempting to just lean in and nuzzle Daryl’s neck with his nose, to kiss his jaw and maybe work up his way to his lips; Rick almost does, almost gives in to this unbearable temptation. He doesn’t, not just yet, not where everyone could see them. He wants their first kiss - their first kiss when both of them are conscious, nobody stinks of booze and neither of them is dreaming, at any rate - he wants it to be special, just for the two of them. 

So he endures, even when Daryl licks salt off his lips after eating some popcorn, or when Daryl rubs his lower lip with the cuticles and nail of his thumb nervously, or when Daryl’s tongue pokes out of his mouth again to clean off some sugary icing off his fingers. Finally, though, he’s at the end of his wits and he knows he’s going to jump Daryl right there in front of his son, his family, God and  _ fucking  _ everyone when Daryl sucks on a big, juicy strawberry he can’t seem to fit wholly in his mouth. That’s it. Rick can’t take it. He’s officially done.

He gets up and mumbles something about being sleepy - “I’ll just go grab a coffee,” and he ignores Carl’s bewildered exclamation of how he slept almost the whole day so why is he tired; he all but runs back to the kitchen where he leans heavily against the counter and breathes in loud inhales-exhales, trying to calm down. He doesn’t even turn on the light. 

He hears footsteps behind him, and it’s strange but he recognizes them instantly, Daryl has this very specific way of walking when he wants people to hear him; and Rick tenses when he hears the soft call of his name, almost inaudible even in the silence of the dark kitchen. He turns around to face the other man and the look on Daryl’s face illuminated by the faint glow of the street lights outside is so uncharacteristically vulnerable, and Rick doesn’t even think about it anymore. He grabs the front of Daryl’s shirt, pulling the man closer to him, then pushes him back against the fridge, and finally, with a soft groan, he closes this final distance between them by capturing Daryl’s lips with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I've been waiting for it to happen too! <3 It only took 22 chapters, almost 80k words... Yes, that's slow burn alright.
> 
> (If anyone's interested, the "something light" Carl had everyone watch is "Shawn of the Dead". I recommend. Good stuff.)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff. And things.  
> Or, the one where Rick has a chance to test his newfound gayness against the real thing.

Daryl’s lips underneath his own taste like strawberries and Rick thinks he’s never loved strawberries as much as he does right now. It’s sweet and chaste only for a moment because Rick’s got no more capacity for patience. He licks at the seam of Daryl’s lips, trying to coerce them to part so he can slip his tongue inside and taste more, and Daryl only takes a few seconds to respond, to grant him entrance, to start kissing back with a soft sigh into Rick’s demanding mouth. It  _ is  _ different from kissing a woman, but not that different; a bit strange with all the facial hair in the way, but a kiss is a kiss, it’s meant to be good regardless of the genders of the people involved. And it’s good. Damn, it’s more than good. One of Daryl’s hands slips into Rick’s hair, the other slides down to his hip; and Rick slowly releases the death grip he has on the front of Daryl’s shirt to splay his fingers on the man’s chest instead. He can feel Daryl’s heartbeat under his hand, erratic, too fast, and yet so perfectly matching with his own; moaning softly in the back of his throat, Rick pulls back for just a short gasp of breath before he dives right back in, his tongue twining with Daryl’s as they explore each other. 

They finally break apart after a long moment, but they stay within each other’s embrace. Daryl’s face is wonderfully open, the swell of emotion raw in his eyes, and Rick thinks:  _ it wasn’t a dream after all _ , and he also thinks it’s unfair that he knows about Daryl’s feelings but Daryl doesn’t know about his. So to rectify it, he licks his lips and whispers: 

“I love you,” and he leans forward to press his forehead against Daryl’s. 

Daryl takes in a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. “Ya dun’ even know me,” he mutters softly and bites his lower lip, swollen and wet from the kiss. He looks up again, stormy eyes intense with something unnamed. “Rick… I… I can’t,” he says helplessly, and it’s so much like in Rick’s dream after they argued, it gives Rick a start so he bites at his own lip, and the pain is a relief because no, he’s not dreaming, this is real, this is really happening. 

Daryl tries to push him away, hands trembling, breath stuttering, eyes open wide and pupils blown. Rick is not having it, though; he kisses Daryl again, as chaste as he can manage while burning with his feelings for this man in his arms, and then tells him, “I wasn’t asleep. Last night, when you said… I wasn’t asleep. I thought it was a dream, but now I know it wasn’t. You really- you love me, don’t you? Say it, Daryl. I need you to say it.”

“God,” Daryl groans. “Yes, fuck, I do,” he admits, unable to look directly at Rick, but it’s okay, because he adds, “I think I loved ya since the fuckin’ moment I first seen ya,” and it’s perfect, everything about him is perfect, everything about the two of them together now, is perfect.

“I thought you and Jesus- I mean, Paul,” Rick says a little sheepishly, chuckling when Daryl scoffs like the idea is ridiculous.

“Like I woulda looked at anybody else after meetin’ ya,” he says, rolling his eyes. But his face becomes somber soon. “Rick, there’s… stuff ya need to know, ‘bout me. Ya ain’t gon’ like it none, but I gotta… I gotta tell. ‘s important.”

“Can it wait until the morning?” Rick asks and lifts a hand to cup Daryl’s cheek. He marvels at the softness of the man’s facial hair, so different from the coarseness of his own thick beard.

Daryl chuckles a little breathlessly. “Ya propositionin’ me, Grimes?” He asks in a tone that mixes disbelief with amusement. 

Rick kisses the laughter away, and it feels so good to be able to do this, to be  _ allowed _ to do this. He doesn’t think he’s been this happy, this fulfilled, in years. He loves being in love. “Maybe later,” he mumbles against Daryl’s lips. There are happy things happening in his pants, but Rick’s not going to rush this. He kisses Daryl again, and again, and yet again, deeply and thoroughly like he can’t get enough of him - because truth be told, he really can’t. He’d waited for this for way too long, and it felt longer still. He’s got the right to get his fill of Daryl’s kisses now. 

Then again, “They’re going to notice we’ve been gone too long,” he mutters and sighs wistfully. “We should go back. It’s Carl’s big movie night after all.” But he makes no move to disentangle himself from Daryl’s embrace. He isn’t that strong of will. 

“Can we jus’ cuddle on the couch?” Daryl asks, a shy not-smile tugging at the corners of his kiss-swollen lips that Rick still wants to kiss even more. “‘s ain’t gon’ be awkward now, yea? We ain’t gon’ go hidin’ it or- ya know.”

“Daryl, if you think I could hide how much I’m in love with you at any given moment from like, anyone who so much as looks at me, I don’t know what to say to you,” Rick informs him, shaking his head. “Every single person in that living room already knows. In most cases, they realized before I did.”

“Ya was kinda dense ‘bout it,” Daryl admits, teasing him again.

Rick kisses him in retaliation. It’s the most satisfactory kind of vengeance he can imagine; he can live with Daryl mocking him all the time if it means more kissing opportunities. He’s addicted, okay, he’s absolutely starving for the touch of Daryl’s lips and the taste of his mouth. And Daryl, Daryl acts like he needs it just as much; eager and demanding, he presses himself against Rick and holds him close, and kisses back as good as he gets, letting out those soft breathless sounds for Rick to swallow. 

“I should make that coffee,” Rick whispers into the delicate skin just under Daryl’s ear after he somehow manages to stop kissing him for a moment. “Want some?”

“Mmmm,” Daryl hums and nuzzles at the beard at Rick’s jaw with his nose. “Fuck, Grimes, yer beard’s killin’ me. Wanted to jus’, dunno, run mah fingers through it an’ ‘twas killin’ me that I ain’t been allowed,” he mutters, voice deep and a bit hoarse. 

Rick laughs incredulously. “You would’ve been, though,” he says, “you could’ve done it anytime since the damn day we met.”

“Oh really?” Daryl asks with a chuckle. “Ya wouldna reacted all weird to a dirty hobo touchin’ yer beard?”

“Well, I would’ve told you to wash your hands first,” Rick admits because he’s reasonable, “but then again, I made you take a shower either way, didn’t I? Also, for the record, I don’t normally pick up strange homeless men from the street to become my boyfriends.”

Daryl’s not-smile evolves into a full-on grin which changes his face, makes him seem incredibly young and almost angelic. “Boyfriends, huh? That what we are now?”

And what else can Rick do right then but kiss him again? Then, between the kisses, he says, “Yeah, we’re definitely boyfriends now,” and Daryl sighs softly before burying his face in the crook of Rick’s neck and nipping gently at the skin there. His big hands slowly migrate, one down Rick’s spine to rest in the small of his back, the other up and down his side, always above the waistband of his jeans, but just so. Rick’s hands aren’t entirely innocent either, roaming over the broad plains of Daryl’s chest and up those sinful arms to the shoulders that make the entire damn neighborhood envious one way or another. Rick’s allowed to touch them now, and isn’t that just literally a dream come true?

“Coffee,” Rick says without conviction, groaning when Daryl sucks on a particularly sensitive patch of skin just above his collarbone. At this rate, they’re unlikely to make it back to the others before the end of the movie. To be honest, he’s not sure he wants to make it anywhere but to the bedroom upstairs, but, it’s Carl’s birthday and they were supposed to see those Goddamn zombie flicks with the family. 

“Yea, coffee,” Daryl murmurs, gives the spot he was sucking on one last lick and finally lets his arms drop so that Rick can take a step back towards the counter. It’s a challenge to concentrate on the coffee machine instead of the man standing so close beside him, but Rick somehow manages to accomplish the task. He hands Daryl a steaming cup and watches with a hint of amusement as Daryl sweetens the coffee with four teaspoons of sugar. 

They finally return to the living room and Rick pretends he doesn’t see the way  _ everyone _ looks at them with knowing smiles. Daryl takes a seat back in his previous spot and Rick curls up comfortably next to him, leaning against his side and sighing happily when Daryl’s arm wraps around his shoulders. He covers both of them with the same blanket and spends the next few hours happily cuddling with the man he’s in love with.

He wakes up to the sound of Shane’s snoring somewhere to his left. He’s warm and comfortable, half-lying on top of Daryl’s chest; the other man isn’t asleep, as evidenced by the gentle caress of his fingertips running up and down Rick’s shoulder, neck, and jaw. Rick lets himself enjoy it for a brief moment before he opens his eyes. He meets Daryl’s stormy-blue gaze and it makes his breath hitch, the intensity of it, the  _ want _ which matches his own perfectly. 

Noticing he’s awake, Daryl licks his lips. “Let’s get ‘em all to beds,” he whispers. 

Swallowing against the dryness in his mouth, Rick nods and gets up. He accidentally rouses Michonne with the movement. She yawns and stretches, already more conscious than anyone should be at this hour. 

“I’ll take care of this guy,” she says, motioning to Shane. Rick admires how she’s awake enough to realize what’s going on. “You boys just deal with the kids.”

So Rick picks Carl up while Daryl does the same with Beth and they carry the two teenagers upstairs to their bedrooms. Miraculously, neither so much as breathes funny. Rick tucks his son safely in bed, then waits as Daryl does the same for Beth in her room. Together, they check up on Judith who’s still fast asleep like an angel, and then:

“So… g’night,” Daryl whispers, standing in front of Rick’s bedroom door with him. There’s hesitation in the way he looks at Rick, then at the floor. One of his hands twitches like he wants to lift it to, maybe, cup Rick’s cheek; so Rick beats him to it, he takes Daryl’s hand into his grasp, tangles their fingers together and lifts them to plant little kisses on Daryl’s knuckles.

“My bed is big enough for the two of us,” he says, trying to sound casual about it, but his heartbeat is loud and his breathing is already too fast. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing.

“I knew ya was propositionin’ me,” Daryl says, smiling crookedly.

“Yeah, okay, I may be. What’s your answer?” Rick asks, and maybe he’s a bit shy about it, a little unsure. He just really doesn’t want to screw this up now that they’ve come so far. 

“God, yes,” Daryl tells him and swoops in for a rough kiss that takes Rick entirely by surprise and forces a raspy moan out of him which Daryl greedily swallows. Somehow, they manage to stumble into Rick’s bedroom locked in each other’s embrace, still kissing as Rick kicks the door closed and leads Daryl backward to the bed. They only pause for a moment to breathe when Daryl is laid out on the sheets with Rick on top of him. 

“Ain’t never dun’ this ‘fore,” Daryl whispers, then bites his lip in embarrassment. 

Rick shakes his head. “Me neither,” he says, “not with a man. Watched some gay porn. Ummm, it didn’t really work for me, to be honest?”

At that, Daryl tries to push him away, face falling at Rick’s admission. He looks like he’s just been punched and Rick swears under his breath, then grinds down against Daryl’s hips, groaning when their groins press together. It must be enough of a contradiction to whatever it was Daryl’s assumed, and the man lets out a soft noise that almost makes Rick go crazy with pure need.

“This works for me,” he promises Daryl hotly, then captures his lips in another frenzied kiss, humming in pleasure when Daryl’s big hands slide down his body, then slip under the waistband of his pants to cup his ass. “Fuck, yes, this works.”

“Rick,” Daryl breathes into his mouth, then bucks his hips to meet Rick’s, and yeah, seems like it’s working for him, too, because there’s no mistaking the hardness hidden under those fitted jeans. 

Foregoing the caresses and teasing, any sort of foreplay, seems necessary, because Rick wants Daryl too much right now; later, they’ll have time to explore each other’s bodies and discover erogenous zones, ticklish spots and the sorts of things that would drive one another crazy with want. Not now; right now, Rick feels hungry. Sliding down Daryl’s body so that he ends up between the other man’s thighs, face level with Daryl’s clothed crotch, he looks up, worried, and asks, “Am I moving too fast for you?” 

He can’t help but nuzzle his cheek against the erection straining under the thick layer of black denim, though, and he can immediately and very definitively feel the effect the action has on Daryl when the man’s hips thrust up into the touch as Daryl gasps. Still, Rick simply settles between Daryl’s thighs and doesn’t do anything more until he hears Daryl say hoarsely,

“Fuckin’  _ too slow _ ,” and then he unbuttons Daryl’s jeans, and pulls the jeans along with the boxers down the man’s slim hips. And, damn, he saw Daryl’s cock before, sure, but not like  _ this _ , not hard and twitching and leaking as Rick eyes it from up close. He feels like he should be intimidated, like as a previously straight man who never harboured any desires for boning dudes, he’s not supposed to react to facing another guy’s erect cock by licking his lips. This would be an appropriate moment for some next-level gay panic, but, well, yeah, no. Rick’s the farthest from panicking he’s ever been. In fact, he’s eerily calm as he admires the large, thick shaft from up close. He makes a mental comparison to his own cock, slightly longer but not as thick, tilting a bit more to the side. He hasn’t seen many dicks in his life and wonders if he should have applied himself more to that porn research thing, but in the end, it doesn’t matter how many he’s seen because he decides right then and there that Daryl’s cock is absolutely fucking beautiful.

Daryl apparently misunderstands his hovering for fear; he shifts uneasily and mutters, “We… dun’ hafta, ‘s too much for ya-” and he moans, a drawn-out, deep keen of Rick’s name that escapes him when Rick finally touches the head of his cock with his tongue. The taste is unfamiliar, a bit strange, mostly salty and sort of sour, like sweat, with an underlying bitterness that’s not too pleasant, but also not especially intolerable. Rick thinks he can definitely get used to the flavor, especially if it comes with the soft, pretty noises Daryl keeps making, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted.

He looks up at the man, says, “You gotta be quiet, baby, you don’t want to wake anybody,” and he smiles when Daryl covers his mouth with the back of his hand to keep the sounds muffled, blushing all over at the endearment. He takes a second to admire the view from this vantage point before he returns his attention to the cock in front of him. He licks his lips again and then leans in to plant a little kiss on the tip of it, chuckling low in his throat when it twitches against his touch. He teases it for a moment longer, kissing along the head and then down the length, fleeting little caresses, barely there, until Daryl starts swearing under his breath; the curse words in that low, drawling voice are unbearably sexy and Rick can’t really resist them, so he finally relents and descends on Daryl’s cock, unhurriedly taking the length of it in his mouth as far as it would go. The way Daryl all but calls out his name, trying and mostly failing to muffle it against his hand when Rick begins to move his mouth up and down the hard shaft makes Rick’s toes curl. He groans softly in appreciation, and once again when the vibration causes Daryl’s hips to buck upwards and Daryl’s cock to slide deeper into his throat. This feeling, this fullness, it’s new, completely foreign territory, and he needs to back away for a moment before he chokes, but as soon as he takes a breath, he moves back on Daryl’s dick and takes it in as far as it will go, fighting down his gag reflex because he just  _ loves  _ having Daryl’s cock in his mouth so much. Who would’ve known? A month ago, he wasn’t even ready to admit he might like a guy romantically. That’s some amazing progress.

He lets the cock slide out of his mouth with a wet sound, then licks down the underside of it, traces the thick vein with his tongue, then licks up the length to the tip and mouths at it, teasing. Daryl makes that breathy, delicious sound again, shifts his hips, reaches down to grab Rick’s hair. Rick gasps, takes him all in again, moans softly around the length - and then all of a sudden, a belated warning dying on his lips, Daryl comes down his throat, sobbing out Rick’s name almost desperately, his hand tightening in Rick’s curls.

It’s not easy to swallow the entire load, but Rick manages at least with the most of it. The taste is muskier, more intense than before, but still salty and sour, and a bit bitter, too. A strange combination, but a pleasant one, and Rick makes sure to get all of it before he lets go of Daryl’s spent cock and moves to lie down on his side, facing his heavily-breathing lover. Smiling, he kisses Daryl, just a press of lips against lips because he understands not every man would like to have a taste. Daryl deepens the kiss, though, and groans at the taste of himself on Rick’s tongue. 

When they part, however, he averts Rick’s eyes, like he’s ashamed. “Sorry,” he mutters, “didn’t mean to, ummm. So soon. Wanted it to last...”

“It’s okay, darlin’, we’ll have time for slow exploration later,” Rick assures him and is a bit startled at the hoarseness of his own voice. He doesn’t feel any soreness in the throat or anything like that, though his jaw hurts a bit from the exertion. He’s going to have to train those muscles. It’s probably the kind of training he looks the most forward to. 

Yep, it’s decided: he really loves sucking Daryl’s cock.

Daryl takes another moment to calm his racing heartbeat before his hands start exploring Rick’s body. Shy, fleeting touches turn frenzied as Daryl gets rid of Rick’s t-shirt and starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats to push them out of the way. He pushes Rick against the mattress, kisses him again, and wraps a hand around Rick’s cock which twitches very happily at the proceedings. Rick groans into Daryl’s mouth, content to be jerked off at an unforgiving pace. He bites down on Daryl’s tongue, then licks into his mouth in apology, and gets his lower lip bitten in return. 

“God, Daryl, yes,” he whimpers and bucks into the fist around his dick.

Daryl smiles, licks his lips, looking down at his face all blushy and proud that he’s the one making Rick feel so good. “Ya close? C’mon, need ya to cum for me, baby,” he says in a deviously deep drawl, and Rick feels his whole body tremble, breathes out harshly, bites his lower lip. He wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, pulls him close, captures his mouth in a dirty, wet kiss as he thrusts his hips up into Daryl’s hand, and it’s so good, the warmth of Daryl’s fingers, the slight discomfort of the grip that’s almost too dry, a tiny bit too tight, the soft, painful whimper Daryl lets out that Rick swallows when his hand tangles in Daryl’s long hair, so good, it’s all so good, he’s close, and then he’s  _ there _ , and it’s  _ too much _ , but it’s also  _ not enough _ , and he rides out his orgasm, thrusting upwards, burying his head in the crook of Daryl’s neck to drown out any noises he makes in the other man’s skin.

It takes Rick a moment to gather his wits after that. He’d never come this hard from something as simple as a handjob, before, but well, he reckons he’s going to have a lot of firsts with Daryl. This was their first time having sex after their first kiss earlier, and then tomorrow will be their first day as a couple. Soon, they’ll do their first Fourth of July barbecue and in August, it’ll be the first time they celebrate Judith’s birthday together. Then there’s going to be their first Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas… and everything else. 

“Ain’t this like… too much?” Daryl asks softly. He’s sprawled on the bed on his side, one arm thrown over Rick’s abdomen. Drawing some geometrical shapes on Rick’s hip, he bites his lower lip, frowning like he’s deep in thought. “Like… we ain’t known each other too long. ‘s kinda fast to. Ya know. Do shit.”

Rick hums. “Well, yeah,” he agrees, “but, huh. We’re men. Isn’t it usually faster, with men? I mean. I’m not opposed to romancing you all you want,” he assures, and it’s true; if Daryl wants flowers, dates and grand gestures, Rick’s actually very happy to oblige. Even a decade into their marriage, he still did spontaneous things for Lori, such as taking her out to a weekend in the SPA or driving her hundreds of miles to see a concert of a band she loved as a teenager. He likes being romantic. Rushing to the physical side of the relationship absolutely doesn’t change that. 

“Depends,” Daryl says. “Ain’t that fond of roses an’ shit. Ya can sweeten me up with chocolates all ya want, though.”

“Consider it done,” Rick promises, chuckling. 

But Daryl is still frowning. “So. This, between us, ’s serious, ain’t it? I mean, we already declared our love an’ all,” he blushes adorably as he says it. 

Rick can’t help himself. He leans forward and kisses the round tip of Daryl’s nose. “Oh believe me, I don’t do casual. Unless you throw me like, really far, I’m never leaving you alone. I told you, darlin’, I’m in love with you. That means I’m serious.”

It makes Daryl finally relax and squirm even closer into Rick. He doesn’t look like a cuddler, but he’s apparently a very eager one, and Rick doesn’t mind in the slightest. He’s warm and comfortable in spite of the drying mess leftover between his legs which he can’t be bothered about. He tangles his hand in Daryl’s messy hair and begins brushing the long strands with his fingers. They’re softer than they look. Smell good, too, of the same shampoo Rick uses. He likes Daryl smelling like him. 

“Mmm. Boyfriends, then. I like that,” Daryl murmurs sleepily, nuzzling Rick’s arm with his nose. Before long, his eyes fall shut and his breathing evens out, and Rick falls asleep soon after him, following him to the land of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and they lived happily ever after.  
> Hah. Just kidding. There are still 10 chapters to go, after all.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something wicked this way comes... and Rick learns just what had been hidden from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence in this chapter.

Rick wakes up to what he supposes might just be the best day of his entire life, sharing the podium with the moment Lori said _yes_ and the day Carl was born. He doesn’t open his eyes yet, revelling in the sensation of the warm hard body pressed against his, an arm thrown casually around his waist, soft breath caressing his shoulder in soft little puffs. He doesn’t move because he’s pretty sure Daryl would awaken immediately, but after a moment, he lets himself look at the man in his arms.

The way Daryl looks when he’s asleep is actually very reminiscent of all the times he’s laughed or held Judith, or ruffled Carl’s hair in obvious affection. The lines maring his face are all but gone, making him appear young and innocent, almost pretty in the soft morning light. His lips are open around gentle snores, his hair moving a fraction as his body rises and falls in a regular rhythm of inhale-exhale. His hand that’s not splayed against Rick’s hip is tucked under his cheek on the pillow and Rick can see the lines tattooed on top of it. One day, he’s going to ask Daryl for the meaning of all those tattoos. Maybe he’ll ask about the scars, too. One thing Daryl’s right about: there are things Rick doesn’t know, things he’d like to know. He still doesn’t even know how Daryl became homeless, for example, or when. How he’d ended up in Alexandria of all places, when he’s from somewhere in the deep South. If he has any family, any dreams and hopes for the future. Damn, what his favorite color is, because if Rick had to guess based on what he’s seen so far, he’d say pink, and there’s no way a manly man such as Daryl really likes pink so much. Thing is, they’ve known each other for two months and, yeah, living together for the majority of that time made it incredibly easy to learn all the things about the each other that they really needed to fall in love, though it’s still fast and some traditionalists would probably frown upon it - not that Rick cares. Still, he wants to know more. He wants to find out every little thing which makes Daryl _Daryl_. He wants to reveal everything of himself to Daryl as well, so that they can know each other inside and out.

“I love you,” he whispers into Daryl’s hair, placing a kiss to the top of his head. God, he’s sappy. As sappy as it gets. He’s going to repeat these words to Daryl every chance he gets, for sure, that’s how sappy he is.

He watches as the man slowly stirs, eyelids fluttering with the remnants of dream, nose scrunching as his face morphs into a tiny frown just before he tries to suppress a yawn and fails. Daryl then stretches lazily, and if possible, the movement seems to only press him closer into Rick’s embrace.

With a sigh into Rick’s neck, his eyes still closed, he asks, “‘s daytime yet?”

“Yes, darling, unfortunately,” Rick replies and kisses his forehead. He feels an inordinate amount of satisfaction at finally being able to call the other man endearments. He’s got a whole arsenal of them he wants to use and nothing can stop him. “We gotta get up, at least I should. Judith’s going to be hungry soon.”

“‘s fuckin’ five in the mornin’, innit?” Daryl mumbles. He doesn’t sound happy about it.

Rick chuckles. “Five-thirty,” he admits, “so I won’t hold it against you if you stay in bed. I’ll make breakfast. I can bring you breakfast in bed later. You can feed me if you want.”

“Can feed ya sumthin’ alright,” Daryl informs him sleepily and gently rocks his hips into Rick’s thigh, and yeah, maybe Rick’s mouth waters at the feeling of that gorgeous hard cock pressing against him, but. He can’t be tempted. Duty calls. Even though he’s quite sure taking care of Daryl’s immediate needs is also his duty nowadays.

_No, bad thought_ , he admonishes himself firmly. Mind made up with steel resolve, he frees himself from the safety of Daryl’s incredibly warm and comfortable arms and gets out of bed, much to his lover’s disappointment. Shaking his head, Rick finds the sweatpants from last night and slips into them to preserve some modesty, though they admittedly do little to hide his obvious reaction to Daryl’s proximity. He opts for a cold shower before breakfast. It helps, thankfully, and Rick’s ready to face the day. Before he heads for his daughter’s room, he lets Cat into his bedroom where the old tomcat snuggles up to Daryl and falls immediately asleep on his chest. It doesn’t even follow Rick to the kitchen later.

Judith turns out to be particularly demanding today and Rick doesn’t actually get the chance to have breakfast in bed with Daryl. He plays with his little girl, distracting her from whatever it is that causes her so-so mood, and as a result it takes a longer time than usual to make breakfast for everyone. It’s kind of okay, though, because at about seven-thirty, when everybody is already at the dining room table having food, Daryl tumbles down the stairs, drops by his room, then comes to the kitchen wearing a pair of jeans and Rick’s t-shirt which is obviously too small on him across the chest. He smiles, gives a good morning kiss first to Judith’s forehead, and then leans in to press a kiss to Rick’s lips like it’s a completely normal greeting between them and he absolutely doesn’t mind who sees.

“Okay, gross,” Carl announces, but he’s grinning so wide nobody really believes he thinks that. Beth smiles brightly and Michonne rolls her eyes, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like _finally_ . Shane just shakes his head, though he doesn’t look very surprised. Actually, he looks asleep. And Rick, well, he’s pretty sure he’s practically beaming as he sets a plate full of pancakes in front of his _boyfriend_.

And yeah, so he sort of expected awkwardness, maybe, or Daryl trying to hide what transpired between them, the relationship they started. This openness about it? So much better.

Daryl takes a bite of his breakfast and makes a pleased sound deep in his throat that reminds Rick of… things. He looks up at Rick, smiling, and says, “Knew ya make a good wife,” and chuckles when Rick blushes.

“Husbands can cook, too,” Michonne notes, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Mom was a terrible cook,” Carl supplies. “She really tried to learn, but it never worked out. She had the worst luck with recipes. That’s why dad learned instead.”

“Yep, I didn’t want to have to live off of take-out all the time,” Rick admits. “Though I used to tell guys at the station the lunches were made by my wife. Some of them were rather… conservative?”

“You mean thick-headed,” Michonne says, rolling her eyes. “Knew some dudes like that on the job. All of their _women should stay in the kitchen_ crap usually mattered only up to the moment their butts needed saving and I was the only one around to help.”

Daryl looks at her sheepishly. “Ain’t meant no offense,” he mutters.

Michonne shakes her head. “Ah, it’s fine, none taken. You can get away with a lot because you’re pretty, you know,” she says and pats his cheek in a patronizing manner.

Rick laughs at the bewildered expression Daryl makes. Then, still chuckling, he returns to packing the man’s lunch: a generous portion of chicken salad with yesterday’s leftover strips. He wishes Daryl could take a day off, but alas, it’s only his second week of work. It wouldn’t look good if he started taking leaves already, especially when it’s for no good reason. Although Rick’s pretty sure Aaron would accept _sexing up his boyfriend_ as a perfectly valid reason to grant Daryl some off time. Still. Better not make a bad impression.

“Was gonna come home for lunch break,” Daryl says when everyone’s done eating and the two of them are alone in the kitchen. Rick is washing the dishes from breakfast and he almost drops a plate when Daryl stretches lazily. He looks absolutely edible in Rick’s t-shirt. It leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s indecent. Rick is having trouble thinking straight just from looking at him.

“Wanna have that talk. Ya know. ‘bout stuff.”

Rick nods. “Yeah, well, I’ll be here. Probably in the garden, I was gonna try and plant a pumpkin patch. Maybe we can have our own pumpkins this Halloween.”

Daryl crosses the distance between them, pulls Rick to turn and face him, and kisses him, hard and full of promise. Then he steps back, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and he says, “Gotta go, pumpkin,” before he leaves.

True to his words, Rick spends the time after breakfast in the garden while Beth and Carl take Judith to the park, and Michonne goes to the library to have some time alone with high literature and complete silence. He digs through the last unoccupied patch of earth to loosen it, gets rid of any stubborn weeds, and plants the pumpkin seeds. It takes much longer than he anticipated, mostly because there’s a regular invasion of clover in the patch and its neighboring plots. Then he has a minor water crisis when the hosepipe refuses to cooperate - he thinks something might be stuck inside - so he has to use a watering can which turns out to be heavy as fuck.

He’s in the middle of carrying the full can from the garage to the garden when strong arms grab him from behind and he’s drawn against a broad chest into a very welcoming embrace. He doesn’t drop the heavy can only because he expected something like this after he heard the rumble of the engine coming from the other side of the house. Smiling, Rick places the watering can on the ground and turns around in Daryl’s arms.  

“Why hello there,” he breathes against the other man’s lips. Daryl kisses him, slow and languid, and Rick kisses back, wrapping his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, careful not to touch him with wet hands in rubber gloves.

They part for breath, just for a moment, and Daryl says softly, “Can’t get ‘nuff of ya.”

Rick laughs breathily, happiness bubbling in his chest. “Yes, same, sweetheart,” he murmurs and is immediately rewarded with a faint blush spreading all over the other man’s face, down his neck and below his collar bones. “Let me just take off the gloves - there,” he removes the rubber gloves and lets them drop to the ground. His hands feel sticky and damp, but he ignores it because not even this can stop him from burying his fingers in Daryl’s long hair.

“Carl’s been telling me I’m going to have to tone it down on the PDA,” he informs with a sigh, “apparently it’s not cool when two old men kiss in public.”

“Yer not that old,” Daryl says, snickering in amusement.

“Well neither are you. You must be younger than me, yes?” Rick asks and leans forward to kiss Daryl’s nose. He frowns when the other man chuckles.

“‘m forty-two this year, Grimes,” Daryl says, shaking his head. He chuckles again at Rick’s surprise, and yeah, Rick is very surprised. He wouldn’t have guessed Daryl, with his adorable awkwardness around people, could actually be older than him. He even looks like he’s younger, nevermind the behavior. Who would’ve thought.

Unfortunately, Daryl’s good humor doesn’t seem to last long. His expression becomes somber as he leads Rick to the recently installed swing. He sits and pulls Rick into his lap, and Rick goes. Despite being approximately the same height and not exactly frail or anything, he fits into Daryl’s arms like he was made to be hugged by him. The swing creaks ominously, but holds their combined weight and Daryl rests his chin on Rick’s shoulder, not overly concerned with who might be looking. Maybe he thinks the spot is private enough. He looks thoughtful, sighing, like he doesn’t know what to say. Like there’s something on his conscience that he needs to come clean about and he doesn’t know where to start. That’s what it is, after all.

“We gotta talk, huh?” Rick asks gently, cupping Daryl’s cheek. “Talk then, love. What do you need me to know?”

“I… ain’t been entirely honest with ya,” the man says softly. He hesitates, bites down on his lower lip, like he’s not sure he should be talking at all. Rick remembers how he overheard Daryl’s conversation with Paul, how Paul tried to convince him to keep whatever secrets he was hiding to himself, and he becomes a bit nervous too.

“It’s okay,” he assures, though he doesn’t feel very assured himself. Still, he tries to remain calm and stoic. He reasons with himself that whatever it is Daryl’s been hiding from him, it can’t be that bad. People in real life don’t hold some terrible secrets from their families. Maybe Daryl’s married, but while inconvenient, it’s fine, they can work around that. Or has some giant debt; that’s also alright, Rick’s got more money than he knows what to do with. Secret children somewhere, a past addiction, minor criminal charges? It’s all crap Rick can deal with. There’s no reason to be scared.

“That day I saved lil’ ass-kicker,” Daryl says, “that ain’t been the first time. I mean. Huh. I kinda been… lookin’ out for ya and yer kids before. For some eight months, actually.”

“What? Why?” Rick asks, startled; he doesn’t think he’d ever seen much of the man in the neighborhood within the eight months before that day in early April and, anyway, it doesn't sound like something a random homeless guy would do for an equally random dude with children.

The confusion must be written clearly on Rick's face because it makes Daryl pause in nervousness. The man lifts a thumb to his lips, bites down on it as he thinks about the answer. Finally, he seems to have decided, but he never manages to get the words out because there’s Carl’s voice from the other side of the house:

“Hey pops, can you come here for a moment?”

And it’s completely off. Rick frowns, sliding off of Daryl’s lap. He looks at the other man whose facial expression mirrors his. Because Carl _never_ calls Rick that. He only ever calls him _dad_ , always has, even as a toddler he didn’t use to call him anything else. There’s absolutely no reason for it to suddenly change… unless it’s meant as a warning, a signal that something’s not right.

“Call Shane,” Rick mutters to Daryl. When the other man retrieves his phone, Rick shouts back to Carl, “Yeah, coming!” And he heads into the house. His mind turns hectic; frantically, he tries to remember where he put his gun, but for the life of him, he doesn't know. He’s not even sure he ever took it from Hershel’s place. Groaning in frustration, he walks faster through the house until he reaches the front door. He can’t see anything through the small stained glass window in the door, so he comes out to the porch and into the yard, and - there.

Carl is standing with his back to him, but Rick can see Judith in his son’s arms, and Beth is a little behind them, like Carl’s trying to cover her. He can also see that Carl’s whole body is trembling, and it’s no wonder: there’s a car parked not five feet from him, and in front of the car stands a man pointing a gun at Rick’s boy’s head.

And, with sudden clarity that makes his stomach drop, Rick realizes he knows this man.

“Beta,” he all but growls, but his heart’s in his throat, his hands begin to sweat, and he’s dangerously close to panicking.

It’s been almost five years since he worked on the Whisperers case. Five years since he helped put this damn psycho behind bars. It was one of those career-making operations and Rick played a prominent part in it. In catching this man.

His real name’s Owen Braxton, but he’s only ever been called _Beta_ , even during the trial, like the codename he gave himself was his entire identity. The guy was sentenced to death for quadruple murder, for Christ’s sake, Rick was there when the sentence was announced. He _helped_ it happen!

Nobody fucking told him the guy was walking free. God, if he’s here, does that mean his crazy bitch of a boss is out as well?

“Hello, Rick Grimes. It’s been a long time,” Beta says. His voice is calm. It always was, even in court as he recounted murdering seventeen people. He went down for only four of those murders because there was no proof the rest were really him. Rick knows they were. He could see it in the man’s cold eyes even back then.

“You wanted to see me,” Rick announces, forcing himself to sound just as calm, though internally, he can’t think about anything but _please let the police come soon, please, please_. “Now you see me. Let my children go.”

“Demands? Interesting,” Beta admits. “Too bad I’m not here to listen to your demands. See, I’ve been trying to make a point for several months now. Turns out, if you want to have something done right, you just have to do it yourself. So here I am,” he nods, like he’s acknowledging how he should’ve arrived earlier or something. “Alpha sends her best wishes, Rick Grimes,” he says, and before Rick can do anything, before he can react, many things happen all at once:

Daryl appears from out of nowhere, a dark blur of movement, he grabs Carl and Judith, grabs Beth too, and pushes them, and they fall behind the cedar bushes to the side of the house; a single gunshot rings through the air at the exact same time and both Beth and Carl start screaming, and Judith is crying; and Daryl, Daryl is on the ground, and there’s blood, there’s so much blood. Police sirens are heard in the distance, and there’s a vaguely familiar voice shouting:

“FBI, drop your weapons-” and then there’s the sound of tires screeching, and the voice goes, “Fuck, Dixon’s down, we need EMT! Perp’s escaping, where the fuck are my reinforcements,” but Rick doesn’t even listen anymore. His kids, they’re safe, Carl isn’t screaming now, he’s trying to silence Judith, but his hands are trembling, and Beth is sobbing softly, and Rick, he-he just kinda takes a step, two, he drops to his knees, he gathers Daryl into his arms, and the fabric of Rick’s too-small t-shirt on Daryl’s chest is wet, and there’s _so much blood_ , and Rick doesn’t know what to do; he sort of presses his hand against the wound like it could stop the bleeding, but it doesn’t, and the blood is hot, scalding hot under the palm of his hand, and-

“Rick,” Daryl gasps, and he looks up at Rick with wide, shiny eyes. “Kids… safe?”

“They’re fine, they’re fine, they’re safe,” Rick murmurs and buries his face in Daryl’s hair. “God, Daryl, why, why did you have to play hero? Why’d you be so stupid? Please, Daryl, please, please. Please don’t die.”

“Ain’t-ain’t gonna… ‘m sorry, so sorry, been wantin’ t’tell ya- love ya, Rick, n’matter wha-whatcha hear, mmkay? I love you,” Daryl tells him, words slurring together, and he’s gasping for breath, and he’s shaking in Rick’s arms, and then suddenly there are hands and voices and people pulling him out of Rick’s safe embrace, taking him away, and Rick screams and tries to hold him, to protect him, but someone holds him back, and he watches helplessly as Daryl is taken into an ambulance and out of sight.

Paul’s hands are on his shoulders, firm, steadying, and the man looks nothing like a friendly hippie Jesus anymore, with a gun in his pocket and a serious expression on his face. He speaks, but Rick doesn’t understand the words, and he doesn’t even listen, he doesn’t want to listen, he wants Daryl, he _needs_ Daryl-

“Get him inside,” Paul growls to someone and Rick’s trying to fight, but he’s manhandled into the house and sat forcefully on the couch - the couch where just last night, he and Daryl cuddled together, the couch where they fell asleep, the white couch he’ll never be able to clean the blood off of - and he, he can’t get up. He’s… weak. He can’t. He. Can’t.

“Dad,” Carl sobs next to him, and Rick wraps his arm around his son and his still wailing little daughter, and Beth joins in the embrace, crying as softly as she can, and Rick’s getting blood on them too, Daryl’s blood, he’s got Daryl’s blood on his hands, Daryl is-

“Grimes, get a Goddamn fucking grip,” Paul snaps at him and Rick looks up at the man, shocked at the language, at the tone, at everything.

“What… Daryl, he-”

“That fucking idiot, I swear I told him so a hundred times,” Paul grumbles, “but, Grimes, he’s gonna be fine, he’s a tough son of a bitch. He’s had much worse and he came through every time. Now, I need you. Okay? So please, please get a grip, _all of you_. I need your account on everything that’s happened here.”

“We-we were coming home from the park,” Carl stutters, and his voice trembles, but only at first. He looks up at the man - their neighbor, for God’s sake, their funny, friendly neighbor from across the street! - and his face becomes resolved, like he’s decided he has to be brave. “Judy was hungry, so we were gonna make some lunch, surprise dad and all. We were on the porch when this car stopped in front of the house and that giant man came out. He was… nice, at first, he seemed-”

“He called me _young lady_ ,” Beth supplies and shudders. “And he looked at Jude like… like she was trash. Like she. Offended him.”

“He said he had business with my dad. Told me to call him,” Carl continues, then bites his lip. “I… saw he had a gun. Like, before he drew it, he had it in this belt-thing, a what’s-it-called, a holster, a holster. So I called dad, but I called him _pops_ , because I never call dad that, and I thought - maybe, maybe he’d realize something was wrong-”

“We did,” Rick rasps, and there’s a feeling of pride swelling in his chest at his son’s quick thinking, but it’s quickly quelled by numbness when he realizes he said _we_ , and he remembers Daryl and the blood, and oh God.

“Then dad came and the guy said something about Alpha, and he was aiming at Judy and me, and I thought… I didn’t know what to do,” Carl’s voice breaks down a little. He inhales loudly, exhales, and goes on, “And then I saw Daryl coming from behind the house, you know, there’s the patch with the bushes, trees, whatever they’re called and I saw Daryl sneaking behind them, like, with the corner of my eye, and I didn’t want to look at him because then the guy might’ve seen him, so I looked at Jude instead, and then the guy started shooting and. _Daryl_ . He’s gonna be fine, right? You said he’s gonna be fine,” he looks at Paul in almost accusing manner, like it’s all his fault and not Rick’s that Daryl is _dying_ somewhere and they can’t do a thing about it-

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Paul promises solemnly. He stares at Rick, shakes his head. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it’s happened like this. We were on Beta’s trail for months, we knew he’d target you in person eventually, and we took every precaution… Well. For all the good it did us.” He turns his back on them as he checks out something one of the other strangers in the house shows him. He runs a hand through his long, messed up hair and nods at the stranger.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rick spits out, and - yeah, he’s angry, he’s fucking livid. It must be some weird blame displacement, some stupid psychological shit that makes no sense, and he knows it’s completely dumb because what happened is nobody’s fault but Beta’s, but. He can’t help it. He’s never hated this man as much as he does right now. He’s never hated _anyone_ like this.

Paul sighs, then looks back at him, regretful. He licks his lips, reaches into his pocket, fishes something out and shows them. A golden badge embedded in black leather. An ID card along with it. Rick’s seen credentials like these before, though not in a long time. Not in five years. Not since he helped put the leaders of the Whisperers away.

“Special Agent Paul Rovia. I’m with the FBI. Daryl Dixon is my partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm the worst. Anyone expected this?   
> The story has been heading towards this reveal ever since chapter 8. If some stuff doesn't make sense, don't worry, it will get explained further along.
> 
> The next chapter is giving me so much attitude you guys wouldn't believe it. I know exactly what to write in it, but the words don't cooperate. Don't worry though, it'll be done in time for the Wednesday update.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past catches up to Rick.

When Rick was thirty-one, he thought he was at the highest point in his life. His son’s baseball team just made state, he had the most beautiful, smart and understanding wife who challenged him intellectually, supported him emotionally and was also the right kind of adventurous in bed, he was well-liked at the department… and he finally got promoted to Detective after years of hard work. What was more, right off the bat he was assigned to the biggest investigation of the century, the so-called _case to end all crime_ in the South, maybe even in the entire country: the Whisperers case.

The group started out in the nineties as a minor drug-dealing gang operating from Johns Creek. Their leader, Alpha, was more of a legend, a myth, than a real person of flesh and blood. The only thing known about her was the phrase allegedly used by the Whisperer hitmen before their victims were done in: _Alpha sends her regards_. Before they even registered on any law-enforcement radars, they managed to build up and move on to human-trafficking and extortion, and got deeply involved in the sex trade in Atlanta. Soon enough, in the early two-thousands, the Whisperers emerged from the shadows as a mafia-type crime syndicate with ties to a major shipping and spedition corporation which may or may not have been a rouse for their human trafficking operation.

Problem was, there was no way to obtain proof of any funny business from the company’s records because no judge would grant a warrant. Moreover, word on the street went that the Whisperers were thinking about expanding their reach which already covered the southern states, some of the East Coast and, according to rumors, went all the way up to Boston.

This extraordinary territorial influence was one of the reasons why the police became involved in the originally purely federal investigation which, in its earliest days, was a simple observation and damage control, but evolved into a full-scale war by the time Rick was assigned to the case. The Bureau simply didn’t have enough resources to cover all bases. The case grew into multiple separate investigations all tied in with the common root, like a Hydra with tens of heads that just kept multiplying. Rick’s department wasn’t really supposed to play a major part of the operation: they were just investigating the missing persons’ cases regarding people who may or may not have been associated with the Whisperers’ activity.

The first time Rick met Beta was actually completely non-intentional. He was snooping around a strip club which Lori later wouldn’t forgive him for weeks afterwards that he went to without taking her along. Nursing a beer to blend in with the crowd, he was scanning the dimly lit room in search for anything that might give him a clue about the fate of one of the place’s dancers who went missing roughly two weeks prior after talking to an FBI informant - when his eyes fell on the giant of a man staring right back at him. Beta, just like in the photo in his file which Rick had memorized by then, had the kind of cold, dead-eyed glare that sent shivers down spines of the toughest men. In real life, it was even more effective and Rick couldn’t suppress the shudder that went through him, even as his dumb feet already carried him towards the man to have a _friendly_ _chat_.

“Name’s Rick Grimes,” he introduced himself with a cheer he definitely didn’t feel. What he felt was terror and also some nervousness because the orders were very specific: _Do not directly interact with the Whisperers. Do not engage Beta. Do not let them see you_.

“Yes, I know,” Beta informed him pleasantly. He didn’t offer a handshake or a name, but instead motioned for Rick to sit down across from him at the table. Rick did.

“You cops always think you’re so good at blending in,” Beta said, sounding like he was amused even though nothing of it showed on his face. “Don’t worry, Rick Grimes, it’s not your fault. I haven’t met a cop who’d fooled me yet.”

“Have you considered maybe my goal here wasn’t to pretend I’m not a cop? Maybe I just wanted an excuse to talk to you. See you for myself,” Rick told him, summoning all of his courage in order to give the man a challenging look.

Beta laughed. It sounded… normal. Like a regular person. “And what do you make of me, Rick Grimes?” He asked. He looked down at Rick sharply, and the illusion was gone.

Rick didn’t come up with any clever response that night. He returned home later than he expected, headed straight to the bedroom and hugged his wife, ignoring how she complained about the smell of booze and smoke still clinging to his clothes and skin. For a moment there, Rick considered backing down. Turning down the promotion, retiring from the force altogether, moving to a countryside and never looking back. He was in over his head, out in the waters too deep to find the ground, swimming with the sharks who already knew his scent. It wouldn’t be cowardice to give it up, but simple common sense.

Rick was never good at backing down.

After that encounter, he thought for the longest time that Beta actually _liked him_. Or liked playing with him, for that matter. When never before could they find any clues whatsoever, suddenly the most hopeless of the threads in the investigation on missing persons started leading somewhere. A white sports shoe found randomly by a runner in the park turned out to have blood on it, blood which the DNA tests pointed to have belonged to the dancer whose disappearance Rick was investigating that time in the strip club. There was no way that shoe was there in the park all this time, it looked way too clean and the blood inside was too well preserved. The lab technician Rick brought it to said it was almost like somebody splashed the blood on purpose because there didn’t seem to be any trace of epidermis around it and the shoe looked new, never worn. It was undoubtedly planted, but for what purpose? To lead them by the nose? To mess with the investigation?

No; Rick knew. It was to mess with him, personally. It was no coincidence that the shoe with the blood of this particular victim was found the morning after Rick met Beta in the club the victim used to work in. What Beta was doing was an answer to Rick’s challenge issued through dumb, bold bravery that must’ve made some kind of an impression.

_What do you see now, Rick Grimes?_

Problem was, allegations and blood stains could only get him so far. Even if Rick was now convinced Beta was directly involved in the disappearance of this dancer - maybe all of the other disappearances with any associations to the Whisperers - he couldn’t exactly prove it with a shoe. There weren’t any fingerprints on it besides the runner’s who found it. Nothing that could be used in court.

But the thing Beta didn’t count on was, Rick was like a damn bloodhound once he latched on to a scent. He _knew_ Beta did it - whatever _it_ was, he didn’t have a theory about this yet - so he started circling the waters like he was the hungry shark because no matter what else Beta was, he certainly wasn’t subtle. So Rick went for him, with the approval of Chief Jones who trusted his gut.

The seven months made up the toughest period of Rick’s career to that point. Even though the leads kept appearing, they never resulted in anything. Rick went through the same clues and hit the same dead ends multiple times, he hit walls when he tried to use any of the department contacts. He tried, every day he tried to find his breakthrough, and he failed, failed, failed every single time.

Until he found Lydia Mason by complete accident, and everything suddenly changed.

At first, the Smiths didn’t really seem like anything. They were a good family, older parents to two adult children, foster parents to three young kids. They were friends of Carol’s, so Rick obviously got invited to a barbecue at their place and he met all of the children. He wouldn’t have thought anything about it at all if not for one remark from the little girl, Lydia, who said to Carl:

“I wish my real mommy was a good person like yours.”

It was nothing, just a throwaway comment, an unwanted child complaining to another child about her woes. But then Cynthia Smith shot a worried look at her husband who shook his head. Neither noticed Rick looking, but Rick’s mind latched on to that comment, to that look between the couple.

Later, he checked it out, mostly for the distraction it provided to the bleak reality of his everyday work, for the satisfaction to his curiosity which he thought might calm his frayed nerves. The first hint that something was amiss was that he didn’t find anything about Lydia’s real parents when he ran the databases, besides the name of the father - Frank Mason, deceased. He had to turn his charm up to eleven to get the details of the man’s death from the coroner - he was lucky she liked him and liked Lori even more - and that was when it became really interesting. That was when Rick realized he accidentally found something big.

Frank Mason was stabbed to death and beheaded. His head was found displayed on a pike in the woods outside of Johns Creek. This murder method was later broadly used by the Whisperers, a sort of their gruesome signature, just like the customary greeting from Alpha which meant somebody was about to die. As far as Rick could see from the timeline records, Frank Mason was the first victim killed this way.

There was a wife somewhere in it, Nora Mason. The neighbors in Johns Creek refused to talk to Rick, even before he introduced himself as a cop, but there were some records of calls to 911 for disturbances of peace and drunken assault. It was generally assumed Frank was an abusive bastard and nobody was sad when he died. Still, it was weird when for some reason, the investigation of his death was closed about a week later and nobody ever connected it to the later rise of the Whisperers.

Rick found the records of the entire process of placing Lydia in foster care, but he couldn’t find a single trace of Nora Mason after her husband’s death. More than that, he had trouble locating anything at all connected to the elusive woman, even from before Frank’s demise. One of the rare findings was a mention of her marriage to Frank Mason in a local newspaper from the early nineties. There was even a grainy photo of the couple, with a moustached man in a dark suit and a tiny woman in a dress that looked too big on her small frame. A typical photo of a suburban middle-class couple.

After that, there was nothing. No credit history, no employment history, no records of a Nora Mason in the hospital where Lydia was born. No signatures on Lydia’s school records, not even a photo of the woman from various school events. She didn’t have a bank account either, apparently, not on her own, not a joint account with Frank.

According to what Rick could find, Nora Mason ceased to exist after her wedding.

But Lydia said, _I wish my mommy was a good person_ , and Rick knew in his gut that he had to find Nora Mason. The way her husband died was no coincidence, it couldn’t be. So Rick dug even deeper, and with the help of Amy Harrison, an extremely talented accountant consulting for the FBI, he uncovered sizeable amounts of money deposited each month to an account made in Lydia’s name. The transfers came from Mason & Hartley Spedition, which was a subsidiary of ABW Logistics & Transport, the corporation with ties to the Whisperers. The company was a ghost, but it was registered to an Anna N. Hartley.

The discovery was a light in the tunnel because while Nora Mason didn’t exist before or after her wedding day, Nora Hartley did. She went to school in Atlanta, was a honors student, got two degrees from the University of Georgia in Athens. She was hospitalized twice after Lydia was born, both times covered by her very expensive health insurance which looked strange for a suburban mom in a low-middle-class family. Rick also found three cars registered to Anna Nora Hartley, thirteen more companies alongside the East Coast, and an apartment complex she owned in Dallas, Texas.

In the end, a child’s throwaway comment served as the key to unlocking the secrets of Alpha and, as a result, to bringing down the entire organization. Her daughter. Lydia Mason was Alpha’s daughter. All it took was to push the Smiths a bit, and they told the police everything they knew about the child in their care’s mother: how she paid them to keep quiet, how she took Lydia out sometimes and then the little girl returned to the foster home with bruises and literal wads of money and piles of new toys. How the tiny, elegant-looking woman wasn’t somebody to be crossed.

Once the FBI was pointed in the right direction, it wasn’t long before they found enough to indict her. Traces of illegal operations and suspicious money transfers got her detained, and then some of her people caved in under the pressure and started talking. Money laundering and human trafficking turned out to be some of the less heinous of her crimes. In the end, Alpha was sentenced to death on account of multiple murders among other offences.

When she got caught, it took her by surprise. She didn’t even deny anything. She actually went quietly when the FBI made the arrest.

Beta didn’t go down as easy as that. He retaliated in the most horrible of ways: bodies started turning up. First the missing persons Rick’s unit initially investigated: heads were placed on pikes in random spots of Atlanta, faces frozen in horrible grimaces of pain and terror. And then, the Smiths, all four of them dead - and a little girl, another of the Smiths’ fosters, crying softly into the phone as she told the police what happened, what she saw happen.

Rick was the one who caught Beta in the end, though there wasn’t a lot of actual catching to be done. He found the man in the same club he first met him in, having a drink as if he hadn’t just murdered four people a few hours prior. He still had blood on his shirt. It didn’t seem to bother him.

“Turns out, you fooled me after all, Rick Grimes,” Beta said in that eerily calm voice of his, clashing so evidently with the unhinged wildness in his cold, deadly eyes. “I thought you weren’t very bright, you see. I thought you were worthless like all of them. And yet, here you are.”

“You’re under arrest,” Rick told him, “for the murder of Cynthia and Lawrence Smith, and their children Sarah Smith and Dennis Smith. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you-”

“Don’t worry, Rick Grimes,” Beta assured him, “I’m not going to fight you here. There’s a time and place  for everything, and this isn’t the time nor the place for our final showdown. But don’t be fooled: I’m going to return, and I’m going to destroy you.”

The trials started a few weeks later, and Beta didn’t even blink when at the end of it all, he was sentenced to death by lethal injection by an unanimous jury. He looked at Rick, though, and his face was smug. Like he was saying: _don’t get too comfortable, don’t be fooled. This won’t stop me. I’ll destroy you._

A little over a year later, Lori Grimes died in childbirth to a rookie mistake that never should’ve happened to an experienced surgeon - and nobody told Rick that Beta escaped from prison almost six weeks prior. Not until right now, two years too late.

“I don’t know whose decision it was, but only a few people even knew about it. I think the higher-ups wanted to avoid it getting out to the public,” _Special Agent Paul Rovia_ explains.

Rick just looks at him blankly. “They didn’t think my family was at risk? That man outright threatened me. It was on record, in the report I submitted of his arrest. Didn’t it occur to your dumb higher-ups that he might want to retaliate?”

“Listen, I didn’t know,” Paul says. “Me and Dixon, we didn’t work the Whisperers case at that time. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, I really am. For how it all turned out. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Dixon wasn’t even supposed to interact with you at all, neither of us was supposed to interact with you. We were just the security detail really, but that guy’s been… well. He’s been smitten with you since he first saw you, no two ways about it. I tried to convince him to back out, give the case to someone else. He didn’t listen, he’s such a thick-headed bastard, he never listens.”

“How long?” Rick asks softly. He’s vaguely aware in the back of his mind that it would be perfectly reasonable for him to start shouting… but he won’t. He’s not sure what it would accomplish besides waking Judith who finally fell asleep upstairs. He’s not even angry anymore, just numb. Maybe he’ll get angry later.

“How long were you guys all over me and my family?”

“In person, since August last year,” Paul admits, and he has the decency to look apologetic about it. “Longer recon before that. The point was to protect you without drawing Beta’s attention to ourselves. Dixon was doing a good job of saving your ass and staying under the radar whilst doing it, but you got him involved directly when you started bringing him food. He got beat up by some of Beta’s thugs and the jackass got hit in the head too hard or something, ‘cause he went to you instead of calling me.”

“I was wondering about that,” Rick mutters, “thought it was you guys’ way of getting him inside or something. Thought it was kinda intense.”

Paul looks awkward. “Nope, that wasn’t us. Dixon did it all by himself. First chance he got, he crawled right into your home and into your arms. You know? I’ve worked with the guy for five years. I’ve never seen him so much as look at anyone twice before you. The moment we were assigned to this op and Dixon saw some footage of you, he decided you were the best thing since sliced bread and broccoli. You wouldn’t believe how much that guy talked about you. It was weird, he never used to talk about _anyone_ like that before.”

Rick frowns. “What kinda footage?”

“Some of your police work in Atlanta, mostly. Everything related to the Whisperers, the court trial, all that. You were quite striking in your uniform.”

“Didn’t have the beard though, Daryl likes the beard,” Rick says weakly.

_And isn’t that just wonderful_ , he thinks, and he wonders how the hell he’s supposed to go on now. Everything is so fucked up.

Approximately four hours ago, Shane Walsh came along with his intervention unit. He took one look at Rick’s bloodied, hunched form and growled:

“Where the fuck is Dixon? He was supposed to protect y’all! I’ll kill that son of a bitch!”

And that’s when Rick realized, _he knew_ . From the moment he’d first seen Daryl in Rick’s living room on that damn pizza day, he knew. He recognized Daryl from somewhere, but not from some stupid intervention in a trailer park, no, that was a lie, Shane lied to Rick with a straight face, he went ahead and came up with a lie. He knew Daryl, he knew what he was, and he never thought it would be appropriate to _say something_.

Shane tried to explain himself later, after Michonne came back and told him to leave in no uncertain terms, he said: “I thought he’d told you, he promised he’d tell you, I didn’t think,” and he looked so guilty, Rick almost wanted to believe him, almost wanted to _forgive him_ , but he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , it’s just one secret too many.

All this time, for the last seven weeks, an undercover agent had been living in Rick’s house, pretending to be a part of Rick’s family, acting like it was perfectly okay to fall in love with him, and it’s too much. It’s like the world isn’t right anymore. Knocked out of its orbit, the axis tilted, everything’s just wrong. At this time yesterday, Rick was kissing the man he loved, and it was like a dream come true, and he thought he’d found what he was looking for, the peace, the love, the _everything_ he craved. Well, serves him right for trusting so blindly, for pinning his damn hopes and dreams on a random homeless guy he picked off of the street, and how could he have been so naive?

He supposes it could’ve been worse. Daryl could’ve turned out to be with the Whisperers, after all. Rick believed in him so fully, the guy could’ve been an assassin sent to murder him in his sleep, and still, Rick wouldn’t have seen anything suspicious until it was too late. God, he was so stupid. So, so stupid.

He still is, because _No matter what you hear, I love you_ , Daryl said before they took him away, and his voice was raw with pain and emotion and fear, and his eyes, there was such honesty in his eyes-

Or maybe Rick just imagined it, saw what he wanted to see. He’s good at this _lying to himself_ business. How is he supposed to tell if anything Daryl’s ever said to him was true?

God, Rick needs him. Needs to see him. He has to know.

Finally, finally the FBI agents swarming the house call it a day. It’s almost midnight when they’re gone, but of course they’re not gone too far, they won’t be gone too far, in case Beta returns to finish Rick off. Rick can’t fucking wait. If he’s gonna get angry, it’s best if it happens when he has an outlet for his anger.

“We should go to sleep,” Michonne says softly. “Rick? We should. You have to get some rest.”

“Why?” Rick asks, shaking his head. “How, Michi? I won’t sleep. I can’t.”

Michonne sighs. “You need to, though,” she tells him. “Listen, I understand you’re feeling like it’s the end of the world right now. I do, too… but the kids need you. And anyway, we’ve got stuff to do tomorrow, don’t we?”

Rick frowns. “What stuff? No, I don’t want to do stuff-”

“ _Stuff_ like squeezing more info out of pretty-boy Jesus about your man’s whereabouts so you can visit him at the hospital, make sure he’s alive, and then kick his ass for lying to us all this time,” Michonne says firmly. “Because no way you’re leaving this alone. You deserve an explanation and Rick, I’m gonna make sure you get it.”

Rick doesn’t protest. He just nods in affirmation. “He said he loved me,” he whispers. “He was bleeding and all, but he still-still said he loved me. Nobody’s that dedicated an actor, right? Nobody lies so damn well when they’re _dying_.”

Michonne looks at him strangely. “Now listen. There’s a lot Dixon hid from us, from you, but there’s no way - just, no way he was lying about that shit. Come on, I have eyes. We all have eyes. That man’s been head over heels in love with you practically from the beginning just like you were with him. You were just too dumb about it all to see. The way he looked at you, you can’t fake that. Nobody can fake that.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Rick admits. “I feel so stupid, Michi. It’s like, I reasonably know I should be terrified because the psycho who tried to kill my children is still out there and he’s definitely not giving up. I should be mad, because the FBI treated me, not only as a civilian even though they should’ve known better, no, they treated me and my family like live bait. But instead of all that, I-I just sit here and wonder if my boyfriend really loves me, like a damn teenage flick heroine, and Michi, it’s driving me crazy. On the one hand, there’s this numbness, ‘cause I can’t process it, I don’t _want_ to, but then on the other, I get emotional and start babbling about bullshit because otherwise I’m gonna start crying, and I really don’t want to start crying.”

“I know, baby,” Michonne assures him, “I know. But, I think maybe you should.”

He doesn’t cry, though. Not that night as he lies back in Michonne’s king-sized bed, her warm hand holding his in a reassuring grip as he stares up at the ceiling, pretending he’s trying to sleep with Cat burrowed into his chest, Carl, Judith and Beth squeezed tightly between them. Not the following day when Maggie Greene comes to pick Beth up and take her home and extends the invitation for the rest of the family because they deserve a respite, they deserve a safe place; and maybe Alexandria, Virginia isn’t that safe place anymore, so Rick sends Carl along to the Greene farm, too. Not when Judith fusses and calls for _Da_ , refusing to eat even her favorite foods, discarding all toys like trash. Not that evening as he calls Aaron to explain that no, Daryl won’t be coming to work tomorrow, he won’t be coming to work on Friday either. Then it’s night again, and then it’s Wednesday, and then Thursday and Friday, and Rick still doesn’t cry. He just functions, somehow. Like a machine.

On Saturday, he talks to Special Agent Paul Rovia, or maybe shouts at him, it’s really one and the same. He goes right up to the house across the street, knocks on the door until it opens, and when he sees Special Agent Paul Rovia, he demands, “Tell me how he is,” but all he gets is a solemn face and indifferent eyes.

Special Agent Paul Rovia says, “I’m not authorized to share that information,” like he’s a fucking machine, too, like he didn’t already tell Rick too much. Like he doesn’t know how much _not knowing_ is tearing Rick apart. Like he doesn’t care that Rick needs the reassurance that the man he loves didn’t die after getting shot on his fucking front yard. Like this is all just another job to him.

But then, Special Agent Paul Rovia looks up at him, frowning, eyes searching intently for something in Rick’s face, and he sighs. And then just like that, he’s friendly-hippie-Jesus again, and he leans in, wraps Rick in an uncomfortably close embrace like he’s pretending to be friendly, and he says, low and rapid in Rick’s ear: “He’s okay, bullet didn’t hit anything major, they got some blood into him, he’s gonna be released Tuesday. Told you he’s tough, Grimes, he’s gonna be just fine.”

Rick tells Michonne. She looks so tired. She hasn’t slept much over the last few days either. She’s just as restless as Rick, and he knows she might be thinking about leaving. He also knows he won’t stop her, he never would, even though he’s not sure he can make it with her gone this time. But Michonne was hurt deeply, too. She doesn’t trust easily, but in the short time frame she’s been here, she let two new people in, she loved two new people, called them family - and both of them betrayed her.

Still, Michonne will do anything for Rick just like Rick would do anything for her. “I can get you an in to that hospital he’s in,” she offers. “I’ve still got some contacts from my spec-op days. Tell me now and I’ll have you inside by Monday morning.”

“No need,” Rick tells her against the onslaught of a thousand thoughts of _what if I’m wrong_ ; but he can’t be wrong, can he? In hoping that after all of this, after everything’s fallen apart, Daryl will return home on Tuesday when he’s released. And _home_ , if the man was telling the truth that night they spent together in Rick’s bed, if he wasn’t just playing a part to better blend in and carry out his covert mission - if anything about what they had together was real, then Daryl’s home is with Rick, right here. So he’ll be back. He has to be.

Sunday passes slowly. Rick tries to do some work at the garden, but can’t bring himself to do much else than just watering the vegetable patches in the hope they might yet flourish even though everything is mostly withered due to the recent heat wave. He doesn’t so much as look at the pumpkin patch, though, reminded painfully of a careless and a joyful morning - _gotta go, pumpkin_ \- and he ignores the persistent dandelions everywhere. Even after the two hours spent hoisting the heavy watering can around, he feels close to bursting with energy. He doesn’t want to go back to the house just yet, to its oppressing loneliness and the empty rooms filled with memories.

Without Beth and Carl, without Shane and especially without Daryl, there’s just too much space. Rick can’t stand to spend more time than necessary in the kitchen, too overwhelmed with the echoes of everything that’s happened there. From that first time when he fed Daryl, or that morning with the sandwiches after the pizza incident, or when Judith called Daryl _Da_ for the first time, the kitchen’s seen the development of whatever it was between Rick and Daryl and carries the memories of it all in every corner. It was in the kitchen when Daryl told him what his favorite Disney princess was, and it was there that they killed the mixer together, and it was also in the kitchen where they almost kissed for the first time, and then they _actually_ kissed for the first time. The damn kitchen used to be a place Rick enjoyed spending time in, it used to be his Goddamn kingdom. Now? It’s stifling.

“I don’t mind eating take-out all the time,” Michonne promised when Rick told her he wasn’t ready to do anything more complicated than boil water for tea in the kitchen. “The nice FBI guys residing on your porch can taste-test it for us. If they drop dead from poison, good riddance.”

So they’ve had take-out, mainly Chinese from that place down near Aaron’s garage at first, but eventually, Rick starts feeling ashamed for ordering two meals a day from the same shop so they start mixing it up. It’s awful. The chilaquiles from the Mexican restaurant up in the business district have no taste, which frankly sucks for Mexican cuisine. The Polish place has terrible pierogi priced like caviar and truffles. Rick also hates the Italian trattoria that recently opened just next to the park entrance, but it’s more of a generic hatred he sort of feels towards the universe at large.

It’s only until Tuesday. On Tuesday, Daryl’s going to come home and everything will go back to normal. They’ll fix it. They can fix it, as long as Daryl returns to him.

He runs, that night, in the park. An FBI agent he doesn’t recognize follows him as he jogs for what feels like hours, until his legs can’t really move anymore and his mind stops racing. He sleeps undisturbed that night, dreamless.

On Monday, Rick goes to the garage to see Aaron because Michonne’s out with Judith and he can’t stand to be cooped up at home with only the FBI for company. He expects to find the man busy with some engine or another, since he hasn’t got Daryl there anymore to help him out. Other than that, he thinks maybe Eric would be there with Gracie - it’s lunch time, after all, they might like spending the break together. What he certainly doesn’t expect is to see Aaron locked in a passionate kiss with _Special Agent Paul Rovia_ who’s pressed against the workbench in the corner of the shop.

The two men don’t even notice him for a good while, they’re so busy with each other. Rick isn’t sure what to do. Should he let them know he’s there, should he just walk away? Should he react, yell at them, call Eric? He didn’t peg Aaron for the type to cheat on his husband. Of course, he’s not surprised about the God-damn FBI agent being A-okay with breaking up a happy family. He already helped destroy one, after all.

_That’s unfair_ , Rick’s conscience supplies. After all, Paul’s been extremely nice about everything, letting slip some information he should’ve kept from Rick, making sure none of the other agents became too overbearing. Still, Rick scowls. Life’s not fair. After the kind of week he had, he deserves to be a judgmental prick as much as he wants to. Especially toward a dude who’s currently all over a very married man, a proud father. Who does that? Is this somehow related to the whole Beta operation? Rick can’t really imagine how helping a man commit adultery can be an FBI op, but then again, he doesn’t know anything. If he did, perhaps he wouldn’t be in such a predicament right now.

He clears his throat and watches as the two men break apart as if burned. Aaron turns to look at him like he’d just been caught red-handed doing something forbidden… which is precisely what happened. But it’s not his face that gives Rick pause. It’s Paul’s, because it’s the first time Rick’s ever seen him so vulnerable.

“Rick, this isn’t what you think,” Aaron says, brushing a hand through his messy hair which just a moment ago was full of Paul’s hands.

“It’s not me you gotta explain yourself to,” Rick replies, shrugging. He’s amazed at how indifferent he sounds. Like he sincerely doesn’t care. “I just came ‘round to, you know. Not be at home with the FBI crawling around like leeches. Guess some people like that, though.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Paul says, both his tone and his expression pleading. “It’s… My bosses, they’re gonna fire me if they find out. I’m not supposed to… be involved, with civilians, when I’m undercover. Even if the cover’s already blown…”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about it before you got involved with a married guy?” Rick snaps, glaring at the man. Of course the bastard only thinks about himself. Like he’s not even concerned about the family he’s gonna tear apart.

“Men,” Aaron supplies, “married men.”

Rick looks at him, confused. He’s not sure he’s understanding this correctly.

“Eric and me, we’re… both seeing Paul. Together. We have been together for almost three years now, though we usually only skyped and met up occasionally up in DC. Since this op started, Paul’s been pretending to be a stranger. We steal moments here and there, and then Paul just brought me lunch under the guise of, you know, interrogating me, and I wanted to thank him, and it’s been a long week, and… it got kinda out of control.”

“That’s… unusual,” Rick says finally, and he’s so God-damn confused he’s not sure what else to say.

God, he misses Daryl. At least they’d be able to be confused together.

“I guess I’ll just leave you to it,” he mutters. The revelation completely deflated his anger and now he’s just empty inside. There’s an underlying jealousy somewhere in the back of his mind, an intense envy because Paul gets to be happy while he has to wait for Daryl to come back to him. It’s annoying, but nowhere near the irrational hatred he’d felt until now.

“Rick,” Paul calls after him and Rick halts, surprising even himself. “Please. Aaron, Eric and Gracie are my only family. Please don’t make me leave them. I know, I know I made Dixon keep stuff from you, I was scared his involvement with you would make the higher ups look closer at his _civilian entanglements_ and then they’d look closer at me, too, and-”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Rick promises softly. “Just as long as you make a better job of keeping these guys safe than you did with my family. Because if anything happens to them too, I’ll end you, man. They’re good people, Aaron and Eric. You better not fail them.”

Paul nods, accepting the terms. “I’ve kept them safe for the last three years,” he mutters, then looks up at Rick. “I won’t fail you again. I’m gonna catch that son of a bitch, and your family’s going to be happy again. I promise.”

Aaron steps closer, pats Rick’s shoulder in firm reassurance. “You’re going through a lot right now,” he says softly. “Just know that if you need a friend, I’m here. I know I’m not your first choice, but… yeah. It’s on the table, if you want it.”

“I’m your friend too,” Paul supplies, “though I can’t… I can’t actually tell you stuff. Not when it can be heard, at least. Bosses still insist on keeping everything under wraps, no details to civilians, all that. Dixon wanted to tell you everything long ago. I insisted he didn’t, and I was wrong. The entire damn Bureau went wrong with this, haven’t we? You shouldn’t have been kept in the dark. Especially not you.”

And it’s true, Rick should’ve been told. He deserved to know, he deserved a chance to prepare, to protect his family from danger. So much has happened because somebody somewhere decided to exclude him from the information loop when the man who threatened Rick Grimes personally escaped from detainment and actually made good on his threats.

_I’ll destroy you_ , Beta said, and he did everything in his power to make it happen.

Because Rick was almost destroyed, by his wife’s death, by the fire which nearly claimed his newborn daughter, by the gunshot wound which could’ve left him a cripple. He picked himself up, time and again, he found a safe harbor here in Alexandria where he thought the bad stuff wouldn’t catch up to him. It did, and now, now he’s on the verge again, restless and anxious, and so close to breaking.

_Everything will be fine_ , he tries to convince himself mentally. _Tomorrow Daryl will come home, he’ll explain himself, we'll hug it out and it’ll be fine._

And then it’s Tuesday night, and Daryl doesn’t come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've cut this chapter into two parts, but decided not to. It's a bit of an information dump, but most of it is really required for what's going to happen later. 
> 
> Also, Paul. Because of reasons.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick Grimes wasn't a cop for nothing.

Rick rushes through the remaining stages of grief over the next twenty four hours, because he belatedly realizes his conviction that Daryl’s imminent return home would fix everything was just denial. And so he progresses naturally into anger: at the FBI for painting damn targets at his family’s backs, at himself for being completely useless when Beta was holding a gun to his children. At Shane, for hiding the truth from the start even though he should’ve been Rick’s friend first and foremost. Then, the anger simmering under the surface of Rick’s skin morphs into this awful, overwhelming wrath at Daryl fucking Dixon who didn’t even have the decency to come back and face him, to explain himself like a man, who lied about everything and then left him alone. Enraged, Rick stomps into the guest bedroom Daryl used to occupy - Daryl’s bedroom, hah, like the two-faced bastard even cared about belonging with them, about ever being in this house at all - and he looks for any personal items Daryl might’ve left there. The clothes, damn clothes, Rick’s bought most of them anyway; that old backpack from before, the leather vest with angel wings, some stupid book with a woman and a shark on the cover, a photo of Rick with his family… He grabs all this, throws it into a trash bag, then carries it to the garden and sets the damn bag on fire. The smoke hits his nostrils, heavy and thick, and it brings some clarity with it. Frantic, Rick puts out the fire and discovers that the leather vest is mostly undamaged, but it’s the only thing that survived his anger intact.

The sudden end to the wanton destruction of Daryl’s belongings throws Rick right into the next stage. He bargains with the absent man, promises him forgiveness and love if he only comes back. Of course it makes no sense to make such offers to someone who can’t hear him, so Rick tries calling him on the phone he bought for him like he realizes he should’ve long ago, maybe from the first day of Daryl’s hospitalization: but it’s to no avail, because each of his attempts goes straight to voicemail. With this option out, Rick then tries to bargain with Paul, instead. He catches the agent by surprise in the house across the street, and he all but begs for information about Daryl, where he is, what he’s doing.

“I-I can’t tell you,” Paul says, apologetic but firm, “I couldn’t tell you even if I knew. He’s not my partner anymore, he’s been taken off the op, reassigned, I don’t know anything else. My handlers don’t exactly tell me stuff nowadays.”

_Reassigned_ sounds pretty much like _gone_ , it’s got the same ring of finalty to it. Because it means Daryl isn’t coming back. He’s not staying away of his own volition. He’s just… gone. Out of Rick’s life. Out of reach. They’re never going to see each other again. Rick will never get to kiss him again.

And just like that, he’s inevitably falling into the depression stage of his grief after losing Daryl. He spends the next couple of hours on the couch in the living room watching some dumb shit on TV. Cat is sprawled next to him, asleep. Judith is also asleep on the other side of him on the cushions, babbling in her dreams. Rick doesn’t even know what it is that he’s watching; he’s curled up around the leather vest that stinks distinctly of burning and his eyes are itchy from all the crying he’s been doing since before noon. He should be thinking about dinner, about the future, about anything. He should try calling Carl at the Greene farm to reassure his son that he’s still alive. He should be doing something other than wallowing in self-pity.

He can’t, he just can’t. There’s an emptiness inside him as he mourns all the things he didn’t get to have. All the holidays he’ll never celebrate with Daryl, all the anniversaries that will never come, all the kisses they could’ve shared but now never will anymore. And Daryl, too, Daryl also lost so much. He will miss all of Judith’s milestones growing up. He won’t hear her talk in full sentences. Won’t be able to walk her to school for the first time. Won’t be there to cry at her graduation or to help her study for tests. He won’t have any of that with Carl, either, won’t see him fall in love, get married, have kids of his own.

They’ll never have the chance to become old and gross together.

… Well, not unless Rick grows a pair and does something about it.

“Enough is enough,” he mutters to himself and gets up. He puts on Daryl’s leather vest which probably looks incredibly stupid on him with the oversized t-shirt and checkered pajama bottoms. He picks up Judith and heads upstairs, followed by Cat. He sets the sleeping baby in the crib, leaves Cat in her room to guard her and goes to take a quick shower. It’s around five in the afternoon when he takes his now-awake daughter back downstairs, grabs his phone and starts making calls.

He was a cop for seventeen years, for fuck’s sake, he was at the rank of Detective for close to three of them, and he was damn good at his job. He’s still got contacts, he’s still got connections he can use, favors he can pull - and he’s got money to cover anything his connections won’t. It takes the majority of the evening, but it’s worth it, because at the end of the day, Rick’s got all the information he needs, he’s got meetings planned, and he’s secured all of the other commodities he will require for what he’s planning to do. When Michonne comes home from her long walk - and Rick really loves her more than ever for not leaving even though it’s clear she’s struggling to cope without running away - she finds him a changed man in comparison to what he was when she left in the morning.

“I know what to do,” Rick announces, offering Michonne a plate of homemade apple pie. Because he made apple pie while on the phone, to keep his hands busy while he was forming his plan. It’s the first time he’s ever managed to make a passable pie.

“You’ve got some crazy plan, haven’t you,” Michonne says warily, squinting at him in suspicion. “Grimes, if you get yourself killed to, dunno, avenge your lost love or something-”

“I’m not suicidal,” Rick assures her. He’s honest. At no point after Daryl got shot did he even consider ending his life. Unlike that time when Lori died, he’s strong now. His family made him strong. “But my plan is crazy, and it’s crazy dangerous. So I need you to promise me something, Michi. I need you to promise you’ll take care of Carl and Judith for me, if I fail.”

Michonne exhales loudly, leaning against the wall. She puts away the plate with the slice of pie in favor of crossing her arms on her chest. When she speaks again, her tone is firm: “I promise, but you gotta tell me what you’re planning. Because if you think I’m letting you do something stupid on your own, you must be more insane than I assumed.”

At that, Rick can only grin as he says, “I’m going to take down Beta.”

He starts in the morning. The first thing he does is shaving his beard down to nothing. For a minute there, he hesitates when he remembers Daryl’s fingers brushing through the thick beard, but it’s just sentiment getting to him for a brief moment before he picks up the razor. He watches as all the hairs go down the drain and it’s a strange feeling: unlike the last time he shaved, he doesn’t feel like he’s losing himself, but rather like he’s regaining a part of himself he lost before. A part he didn’t need for the longest time. The man looking back at him from the other side of the mirror isn’t Rick Grimes, the widowed dad of two children, hopelessly searching for his place in the world. This man’s the Detective Rick Grimes who already found his family - and he will protect it with his life if he has to.

The next step is to visit Paul again.

“I won’t be home for some time. Might be a few days, might be a few weeks,” he warns because he knows the man is still his designated guardian.

“I suppose you won’t be telling me where to find you?” Paul asks with a sigh. If he’s surprised at how collected Rick is today in comparison to yesterday’s breakdown, he doesn’t let it show. His only display of surprise was when he opened the door to see Rick clean-shaven.

“I’m not sure where I’ll be, honestly,” Rick says, “but I’m starting at the Federal Prison in Atlanta. I’ve got a long overdue visit with someone on the inside.”

“They won’t let you see her,” Paul warns, catching on immediately.

“Oh, they will. I’ve got that covered. Make sure your handlers know. And you watch Michi and Jude for me, yeah? Get them out of here at the first sign of trouble. You entrusted me with knowledge about your family, I’m trusting you with the wellbeing of mine.”

Paul looks at him for a moment, saying nothing before he nods. Satisfied, Rick offers him a handshake and a sincere smile. He’s reasonably sure he can count on him. He’s just as reasonably sure he won’t need to, no matter what comes out of his plans.

“I’ll see you when I’m back, I’ll have something for you to do for me then,” he promises and Paul doesn’t really look happy about it. He mutters something about _those damn bastards worth one another_.

Rick takes the truck to the airport and boards the flight to Atlanta that Carol booked for him. It’s only a two-hour flight and Rick spends it reading the first Harry Potter book. He finally finds out what _Gryffindor_ is. Somehow, he doesn’t really mind being classified as one by his son, though maybe he should be worried that Carl sees him as a hot-headed dummy with a hero complex. Then again, isn’t he? After all, he’s going out of his way to issue a challenge to a damn mafia boss so that his boyfriend can eventually return home to their family. That’s dumb and brave and rash all at the same time, he’d be the first to admit.

It’s funny. A month ago, his biggest problem was accepting that he was attracted to a man. Now, he’s waging war against a cold-blooded killer who managed to escape from a high-security prison and evaded recapture for _years_. This is some next level shit, this transformation. Rick isn’t the man he used to be as a cop, nor is he anything like the suburban dad he tried to be for a long time. He’s something new.

And he’s really pissed off.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed again?” Carol asks when she picks him up from the airport. “Michonne called me. Said you’re going to war.”

“The Whisperers need to be put down,” Rick replies nonchalantly, getting into the car with his sister. “Seems right I do it, since the feds can’t seem to manage on their own.”

“So you’re gonna talk to her? What do you want to accomplish, huh?” Carol sighs. “I was relieved when you retired from the police. You’d always been so prone to injuries. Now you’re risking your life again, but this time you don’t even have back-up from the uniforms.”

Rick shakes his head. “Please don’t harp at me,” he says. “You’d do the same thing if your family was in danger.”

“That’s not the point. I’m your older sister, I’m supposed to keep you in line,” Carol says.

“Rick, the last time you went after them, four innocent people were killed. Are you sure you’re willing to take that risk?”

“He’s not out to kill innocents this time,” Rick replies simply. “He’s out to hurt me, specifically. Not kill me, _destroy me_. I’ve got a security detail on your family in case he tries to go after you and yours, but I don’t think he will. Not after I do what I’m planning.”

“We’re packing up the kids later today, leaving the country for the time being,” Carol informs him softly. “Zeke doesn’t want us at risk and we were planning some tropical vacation anyway. If you want, we can take Carl and Judith-”

“They’re in good hands. And Carol, I’m glad Zeke’s taking you to safety,” Rick assures, smiling. “He’s a good man, your husband. He’s gonna protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, silly man,” Carol mutters. But she returns his smile, grateful that he’s not holding a grudge. Rick couldn’t blame her nor Ezekiel for their haste to leave, though, not even if he wanted to. The Whisperers are a force to be reckoned with, and Rick’s just about to poke that beehive with a sharp stick.

Carol drops him off at his old station where Morgan Jones, previously Rick’s boss, now the Commissioner of Police, is already waiting with the car.

“It’s good to see you, Grimes,” he greets with a firm handshake. “Wish the circumstances were better, though.”

“I promise, next time will be a nicer occasion,” Rick returns with a grin.

He accepts the keys the man hands him, and the temporary _special consultant_ badge and credentials which should’ve gone through official channels, but there’s no time for that. He’s never been as appreciative of his old boss as he is right now. The man’s got higher morals than anyone else, but he’s always been willing to break the rules if the situation called for it. Like now. Because Morgan Jones knows now that Beta is walking free - and even though he’s one of those anti-capital punishment, _all life is precious_ types, he knows that Beta walking free is too much of a threat, and needs to be taken down.

The Atlanta Federal Prison is one of several medium- to high-security penitentiaries for male inmates in the country. It’s a completely typical prison, nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of one special high-risk all-around-surveillance ward which is generally kept from public knowledge. The place houses some of the most dangerous criminal minds in the country, those who pose the greatest threat both to the society and to the other inmates. The small facility is located in a heavily-guarded building inside of the actual prison. Only people with a special kind of clearance are allowed in that building.

Thanks to Commissioner Jones, Rick’s got the right kind of clearance.

“She’s expecting you,” the guard who checks his credentials says as he lets him inside. Another guard leads Rick to the visitation room, which is the only part of the facility that isn’t underground. There, on the other side of the room, separated from him by a sheet of bulletproof glass, sits Alpha.

She looks different than Rick remembers her. Back during the trial, she could’ve been called beautiful with her pretty blond hair and well-fitting clothes showing off all of her ill-begotten wealth, even though her particular brand of crazy was clearly visible in her eyes through it all. Now, all traces of that beauty are gone. The woman’s head is shaved and her limbs are spindly in the shapeless gray rags she’s dressed in, and she looks at Rick through sunken eyes that still hold that manic glint he remembers seeing in court.

“You must be Rick Grimes,” she says, smiling. The grimace is all the more horrible, for it reveals the pale pink of her gums which seem to be bleeding. Her lips are so pale they’re almost blue; she must be anemic. Maybe she’s been rejecting food. Some inmates do that in hopes the deteriorating state of their health might get them to a hospital where the security is less strict. With Beta on the outside no doubt working to orchestrate her escape, this must be a viable part of their plan.

“And you must be Nora Mason. Or is Anna Hartley more appropriate? To be honest, it’s hard to keep up with all your names,” Rick replies politely, taking a seat at the only available chair. He notes how the woman’s eye twitches at the sound of her legal name. She’s like Beta in that aspect: prefers the codename to her given name, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I know why you’re here,” Alpha tells him, nodding. “You want me to call him off, don’t you? My second-in-command. You want me to stop him from pursuing you. What will you offer me in exchange, huh? A transfer to a less dreary facility? I quite like it here. Maybe a shorter sentence? But that can’t be it, not with the capital punishment your pathetic judicial system got me waiting for. You wouldn’t have that kind of sway.”

“You’re incredibly talkative for someone who allegedly hasn’t said a word since the trial,” Rick notes.

“I hear you’re an interesting man to talk to,” Alpha replies. “My Beta is quite enamoured with you. He wants to make you suffer. Do you want to know why?”

“I don’t really care,” Rick says. The woman’s face twitches again. “And I’m not here to ask you anything, nor to offer you anything. I’m here to tell you I’m going to destroy what’s left of your Whisperers. I’ve got the means, I’ve got the guns. I’ve even gotten the police and the feds to turn a blind eye. You’re done for.”

Alpha’s face twitches once more, but she doesn’t let anything show in reaction to Rick’s words. Instead, she asks contemptuously, “Oh really? And why are you telling me this?”

And Rick grins, all feral and satisfied. “Because I thought you’d love to have something to dwell on in your final days. Yes, days. I’ve got a friend in the State. You’re not especially well-liked, so it didn’t take a lot of convincing. They’re moving you to the front of the queue. I suggest you cancel all your plans for Labor Day, because you won’t be around that long.”

Ah, and there it is: the bland, disinterested face falls completely, turning into a grotesque picture of rage, hatred and actual _fear_ as the woman gets up from her chair and throws herself bodily at the glass between them. It doesn’t budge, it’s too thick to break under the weight of a frail woman who’s been starving herself. Rick stays in his chair, watching.

“You’re lying,” Alpha hisses spitefully, “you’re lying, Rick Grimes! You don’t have that kind of influence. You’re just trying to scare me!”

“If I didn’t have that kind of influence, do you think I’d be here?” Rick asks pleasantly.

She starts screaming, throwing insults at him as she bangs at the glass. It doesn’t take long for the door on her side of the room to open and about half a dozen guards run inside, then neutralize her. Rick nods an acknowledgement to the one guard who stares at him, and he gets up to leave.

“You’re dead, Rick Grimes,” Alpha calls before she’s dragged away, “you’re going before me, you have my word!”

And that’s what Rick was hoping to achieve: his challenge has been issued.

He’s quite pleased with himself as he’s walking through the parking lot to the borrowed car. He accomplished quite a lot for such a short amount of time, after all. He looks at his phone to check the time; he’s still got quite a few hours before the booked flight to Dallas, the next step in his daring plan. He takes a moment to call Carl, tells him he’s fine, promises he’ll join him at the farm quite soon. Then he checks in with Michonne and Judith.

He’s putting the phone back in his pocket, looking idly around the parking lot, when his heart makes a wild leap and his eyes widen.

“Daryl,” he whispers because all of a sudden, his throat is too dry to speak normally or do something as wild as call out for the man’s attention.

Daryl notices him, though, and heads towards him, hesitation visible clearly on his face as he pushes the sunglasses to the top of his head. God, he’s still so handsome, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a blue button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up to above his elbows.

“ _Rick_ ,” he greets softly, and the sound of his name on this man’s tongue makes Rick forget about the whole world. He lifts a hand like he wants to touch Rick’s smooth cheek, but drops it when Rick shakes his head.

“Heard you’ve been reassigned,” Rick says, then coughs to clear his throat of the hoarseness. He didn’t think he’d see Daryl again so soon. He thought he could handle anything, but apparently, he’s still something of a young adult novel protagonist and the control he has over emotions is going very awry.

“Yea,” Daryl admits, then lifts his hand again, this time to gnaw at the cuticles at his thumb. The gesture is so familiar, Rick’s heart _hurts._ Here stands a man he knows so well he could predict his reactions without fail, yet rationally, Rick understands this Daryl Dixon is in fact a complete stranger. How should he act in front of the person he loves so much he could burn the world down to get him back, but isn’t even sure this person really exists?

“What’d ya come here for?” Daryl asks, looking away from Rick’s face. The shyness, the uncertain mannerisms, it’s all the same as before. Even the accent is the same, the southern drawl speaking so clearly of the countryside bathed in the summer sun of Georgia. Maybe there was more of the real Daryl Dixon in the constructed _homeless man_ persona he wore than Rick expected.

God, he hopes so. His sanity may come to depend on it, once he’s done.

“Stuff,” Rick says casually, “and things. Nothing you need to be concerned with. Your friend Paul knows I’m here.”

“Yer angry with me,” Daryl says and sighs. “‘s not like ya ain’t got no right. I get it. But, Rick, it’s… Everythin’ I said before, that I,” he pauses, exhales shakily, then continues, “that I love you, ‘s all true.”

Rick smiles through the heaviness he feels deep in his chest. “I know,” he admits softly, because he _does_ , “but you hurt me and I can’t say it back right now. Not yet.”

Daryl nods, lets go of his thumb and bites down on his lower lip instead. “Not supposed to even talk to ya. Bureau ain't too happy with me,” he mutters, disgruntled. “Got sent on mandatory sick leave 'till August, then I’m bein’ demoted. Been lucky I ain’t got fired yet. Twenty years of spotless service an’ all that,” he chuckles bitterly. “‘s long as Beta’s out there an’ op’s runnin’, I ain’t supposed to be ‘round ya. I didn’ know ya’d be ‘ere though, was visitin’ my dumb brother in jail. But yer here an’ I saw ya, an’ I couldn’t… couldn’t just ignore ya. Ya deserve an explanation, a reason, anythin’-”

“I understand why you had to pretend,” Rick says. “It’s okay. I was… really, really angry with you for a while. Still am, a little, I think. I thought it was all a lie, but it wasn’t. Not all of it.”

The other man shakes his head. “Most of it ain’t a complete lie. I even used to be homeless for reals, though ‘twas some twenty-five years ago after my useless daddy got ‘imself done in an’ then Philip Blake bought out our land off them debt collectors. Got picked up by FBI as informant down in Atlanta, them’s got me an in to Negan’s cartel. Thought I fit the profile, ya know? Homeless junkie, brother in jail, nowhere to go, nobody t’miss me. Turned out I was good enough, helped bring the bastard in, so them FBI guys offered me scholarship an’ stuff. Been a fed ever since.”

“You brought down Negan?” Rick asks, astonished. That investigation was the stuff of legends. Everyone wanted to be a part of something like Operation Sanctuary. Rick was still a kid when it all went down. To hear Daryl was there, in the middle of it... Even with their age difference, Daryl must’ve been barely what, eighteen maybe? Still a kid himself. And yet he brought down a legendary gangster.

Rick remembers reading about it, about the fall of Negan. There was a lot of coverage in newspapers, and then there was a book published a few years afterwards. A lot was written about an anonymous source inside of Negan’s ranks, someone who turned out to have been an agent infiltrating the Saviors from the start - and Rick realizes with a start, that was Daryl Dixon. That unnamed agent whose identity was never revealed, that was his God-damn  boyfriend.

“Woah,” he says with something of a smirk. “I knew I wouldn’t have fallen for a boring dude, but I didn’t know you were this much of a badass.”

He realizes a little too late that the words come out too flirtatious, maybe, or too light, but it’s the most he can offer right now. Daryl accepts the teasing with a shy not-smile, one of those quirks of the corners of his lips that made Rick’s heart flutter before. It still does. Makes Rick reluctant to leave, to say goodbye, even though he knows he needs to. There’s so much he has to do and so little time to do it all. He can’t waste it here, delaying the separation which is inevitable for them. They can’t pick up where they left off. Their relationship, the way it was before Rick found out the truth - it cannot be salvaged.

It’s fine, though. After he deals with the Whisperers, he’s going to find Daryl and learn him anew. It’s just a matter of time.

“Please be safe,” Daryl pleads softly.

“I will be,” Rick promises. He smiles, then leans in and plants a chaste little kiss on Daryl’s lips which part under his in surprise. It’s so tempting to linger; Rick wants nothing more than to deepen the kiss, to remind himself of this man’s taste, of the feeling of their tongues twined together - but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, and Daryl nods his assent before he makes the visible effort to turn his back on Rick, even as everything about his tense posture all but screams how much he doesn’t want to let go yet. Rick smiles, wistful because he feels the same, and he watches Daryl go, knowing this isn’t really a farewell. They’re going to meet again, sooner or later. Rick’s going to make sure it’s sooner rather than later, too.

For now, though, he’s got a plane to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are you planning, Grimes? This definitely isn't what I was planning, but okay, let's go along with your plan, you're the main character here... *sigh*
> 
> BTW I'm thinking about a spin-off series centered around Paul once I'm finished with Coming Home. It would be mostly a prequel from when he was a rookie agent, leading up until some retelling of CH from Paul's perspective. Should I go for it?  
> Who am I kidding. I've already started the first chapter.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick meets with people and then talks on the phone. He's very bad at this "not being with Daryl" thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for no chapter this Sunday! Long story short, my backpack was stolen when I was on a bonfire party last Friday, it had my keys and some documents with my home address so I had to change locks which cost me something over three hundred bucks. So I wasn't really in the mood for chapter editing and stuff. I'm so sorry. We're back to regular posting schedule now~!
> 
> Also woohoo, over 100k words! I'm officially crazy.

Over the next days, Rick meets with people. He’s on a tight schedule, he knows. The new execution date on Alpha means he’s got limited time. Fortunately, he doesn’t encounter any hitches along the way; he sees Senator Monroe in Dallas like he planned, then flies down to Houston to the military base where he meets with Sergeant Abraham Ford whose father was a friend of Rick’s dad’s. They chat briefly about the good old times - Sergeant Ford features heavily in Rick’s childhood memories, though unlike Shane, he never made it to the inner circle with access to the treehouse - before getting down to business. It’s one of the hardest parts of Rick’s agenda because even despite their shared childhood, Sergeant Ford is a stickler to the rules and he’s not especially convinced he should break them even with extenuating circumstances.

“Mother dick, Grimes,” he says unhappily, “I could get court-martialed for even talking about this to a civilian. You’re lucky you’re cute, man, otherwise I swear to all fucks I’d be throwing you on your ass.”

Rick knows it has nothing to do with his cuteness and everything to do with the support from the Senator, but he just laughs and doesn’t comment. He follows the man when Sergeant Ford leads him through the base to a section where unauthorized personnel is not allowed. It looks like a mix between an assembly hall and a lab. Nobody pays them any mind as they walk casually through one room to another to meet a Doctor Eugene Porter, a world-class expert on AI-based surveillance systems. The visit is brief and would’ve been even shorter if Dr. Porter knew how to talk like an actual human being. Still, it’s wildly successful and Rick leaves with everything he required, and more.

The next flight is in the morning, so Rick spends the night in a hotel. He feels incredibly lonely in the small room with the unproportionately giant bed; he texts Michonne who sends him a heartwarming photo of Judith curled up around Cat, but it only manages to magnify the feeling of separation. With a sigh, Rick sends a quick text to Daryl, just a short message, never even expecting a reply. He types:

_Missing you._

And he wonders if Daryl even still has that smartphone. He probably got rid of it as soon as he was recalled; why would he need the number now that he’s back to his old life? Apart from using it to contact Rick, that is…

“God, Grimes, get a grip,” Rick murmurs, admonishing himself for the unwarranted sentimentality. He blames it on meeting Daryl in that prison parking lot. God, the man looked damn fine in that shirt. He’d look even better without it.

Rick’s phone buzzes with a new message. Expecting to see another cute photo of Judith, Rick checks it quickly and almost drops the phone in surprise when it’s a text from Daryl instead. He reads it four times before he properly realizes who the sender is:

_i been missing you every damn day_

So he responds, _If Beta wasn’t an issue, if the op was done, would you come back to us?_

_yes_ , Daryl replies. _still might anyway_

Rick chuckles softly and types: _Screw the rules, huh?_

And Daryl writes back quickly: _dont care about rules anymore. care about you though. your still my boyfriend._

It’s so adorable, Rick can’t help but smile to himself. He imagines Daryl blushing all the way down his neck and chest, even his ears reddening as he types. He’s probably biting his lip, or maybe the cuticles of his thumb. Is he picturing Rick right now? Is he wondering if Rick is still dressed in the clothes he was wearing when they saw each other or is he imagining what he might be using for pajamas in the blazing heat of the southern summer? Because Rick is very much imagining what Daryl would wear to bed in the ninety-degree heat of Texas. Only his underwear? Maybe nothing?

_And you’re still mine. God, I wish I could touch you,_ Rick types. He hesitates a moment before hitting _send_ , but he eventually decides he’s got nothing to lose and maybe some stress relief to gain. There’s little probability Daryl is actually going to go along with it, but, well, Rick is really an optimist after all.

Daryl doesn’t text back for the longest time and Rick actually considers giving up, maybe just going to sleep. Suddenly, though, his phone starts ringing. Bewildered, Rick stares at it, at the caller ID which he definitely didn’t expect, before he picks up and sort of breathes out loudly into the microphone.

Before he says anything, though: “Ya sound like a creeper,” Daryl informs him drily, but his own voice is somewhat breathy and deeper than when he normally talks.

“You surprised me, is all,” Rick protests, aiming to sound indignant. It doesn’t really work because he’s already aroused just from hearing Daryl, instead, and it’s probably very easy to detect from the timbre of his voice. “To be honest, after such a long time not hearing from you, I thought you’d chucked that phone into the river first chance you got.”

“‘twas hectic, this time I was away,” Daryl mutters, apologetic. There’s something incredibly intimate in talking to him on the phone, with the way his words fall into Rick’s ear making it so easy to imagine him close enough to touch.  

“Yeah, it was hectic for me, too,” Rick admits. He sighs. “How’s your wound? Paul said you needed blood transfusions?”

“‘s nothin’, had worse. Ain’t even hurt no more,” Daryl says, “an’ I’m sure Rovia’s told ya all a’that. He takin’ good care of y’all?”

Rick chuckles and rolls his eyes. “He’s doing fine, I guess. Between his two lovers, a baby, doing his actual job and then keeping an eye on something for me, I’m sure he’s already regretting all of his life choices.”

There’s a pause, but when Daryl speaks next, he sounds genuinely confused. He asks: “What two lovers?” - and Rick laughs because this must be a joke.

“Um, the Raleighs? Eric and Aaron? You might know them, one of them’s your boss… I mean, pretend-boss? By the way, was that all part of the ruse too, you working at Aaron’s place?”

“Yer kiddin’ me, right? I. Ain’t known ‘bout this, what the fuck. Ya sayin’ that lil’ shit’s fuckin’ them both? Wait, wait, wait, when bastard’s told me he was seein’ someone… Fuck. He played me,” Daryl grumbles in dismay and disbelief. “Told me he met a guy in DC. Ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout it bein’ two guys. Jus’ said dude was called Raleigh. I kinda assumed ‘twas the first name. Didn’t think twice when I mets Aaron...”

“Weren’t top FBI agents supposed to be super smart?” Rick teases.

“Fuck you,” Daryl retorts, but he ends it on a chuckle. The swearing, it’s the main major difference between this agent-Daryl and the Daryl who used to live with Rick’s family. Over just the course of a few days, the man reverted to what must be his natural state when it comes to the liberal use of invectives. Thing is, without any children around to hear it, Rick doesn’t mind. He actually thinks it sounds kind of sexy. On the other hand, he thinks the sound of Daryl _breathing_ is sexy, so perhaps he’s not the best judge in that matter.

“So you didn’t know about them? Funny, because Aaron definitely knows. About all the stuff’s been happening,” he says. “I assumed working for him was a part of your plan or something, a good cover for your ex-homeless persona.”  
“Nope,” Daryl mutters. “Ain’t never seen the dude before ya brought me to the garage. Guy offered me the job, gots me by surprise too. Really am into bikes, by the way, in case yer wonderin’. That Harley ya lent me, she’s a real beauty. ‘s been fun to ride. I’d take her over my old Triumph any day.”

Rick doesn’t say that the Super Glide is going to be waiting for him when Daryl comes back in the future, no matter how long it takes. He doesn’t want to appear over-eager, even though he definitely is over-eager. And anyway, Daryl isn’t aware of Rick’s somewhat crazy plan to take down Beta and any other obstacle standing between their reunion, and it’s better if it stays this way. The man’s not supposed to be getting mixed up after all, and Rick’s pretty sure Daryl wouldn’t stay away if he knew what’s going to happen, damn the consequences. It's impossible, though, to completely cut him off, even though Rick really should. He's bad at not taking what he wants. So, so bad.

“You know, when I texted you earlier, this isn’t how I imagined this conversation going,” he says to change the subject, to drive his thoughts away from the less pleasant matters.

“What did ya have in mind, then?” Daryl asks. There’s a smile clearly audible in the way he’s talking. Fondness and amusement both. Rick can picture the way the corners of the man’s lips are quirking upwards, the way his beautiful stormy-blue eyes are twinkling in the dim lighting of… wherever he is, right now. There must be lines crinkling in the corners of Daryl’s eyes. His smiles have always seemed so incredibly attractive to Rick. Even now, just imagining what the man must look like, it’s enough to make Rick’s belly fill with warmth.

So he says, “I thought maybe we’d talk about something more pleasant. You catch my drift?”

“Mmmm,” Daryl hums in response. “Yer a perv, ain’cha. I done called it.”

“It’s hard not to be a perv when it’s about you,” Rick confesses. “You’re the most gorgeous man in the world, aren’t you?”

“Ain’t,” Daryl protests. He’s definitely blushing now, and God, Rick wishes he could be there by Daryl’s side so he could see the pretty flush spreading across his boyfriend’s chest.

“Huh. Of course you are,” Rick says, smiling lazily. “You’re incredible, Daryl. I’ve been trying to stay away because you’re such a distraction and I really can’t afford distractions right now. But you? You’re on my mind all the time, and I honestly can’t resist. I don’t think I want to.”

“Then don’t,” Daryl murmurs, the soft rumble of his voice making Rick shiver pleasantly. “Yer a distraction to me, too. Lucky I ain’t workin’ right now. Would be hard to concentrate.”

“Oh yeah, it’s hard,” Rick admits in a very suggestive tone. “I wonder what can be done about it…”

“Ain’t havin’ phone sex with ya,” Daryl informs, spluttering only a little. “I mean. Ain’t gonna stop ya. If yer, ya know. Doin’ stuff. But ain’t mean I’m gonna talk ‘bout it.”

“What a pity. I’ll get you to talk dirty to me one day,” Rick promises.

It’s… nice, this semi-sexual banter. Rick feels the lazy undercurrent of desire spreading throughout his body. It’s nothing urgent, nothing like that time he made the first foray into gay porn territory, definitely not the same as when he couldn’t wait to have Daryl’s cock in his mouth. Just… he’s warm, comfortable and somewhat aroused. He could touch himself to Daryl’s wonderful voice and the sound of his breathing. He could as well not, and just fall asleep to the lazy, deep drawl in his ear like a lullaby.

“Next time I see you, I’m going to debauch you so thoroughly,” he says.

“Mmm,” Daryl agrees with a soft hum. “If I don’ get to do it to ya first.”

“You can do whatever you like to me, sweetheart,” Rick offers in a low voice, drawing out the nickname in a way that’s hopefully sexy and not hilarious.

Judging by the hitch in Daryl’s breath, it’s exactly the way Rick intended.

“You don’t wanna talk dirty to me, that’s fine, baby,” Rick continues, smiling as his hand slowly slides down his body. Caressing himself, touching his chest and stomach, he pretends it’s Daryl’s fingers learning the way his body reacts to the intimate touch. “Hope you don’t mind if I talk dirty to you, though. I’m gonna paint you a picture with words, yes? Close your eyes, darling.”

“... ‘kay,” Daryl whispers.

“Are they closed? Tell me,” Rick demands.

Daryl hums an affirmation in reply.

“Good boy,” Rick murmurs and is rewarded with a loud exhale. Daryl likes being called various endearments and he seems to really like praise. That’s something to file away for the future. “Now try to picture everything I tell you, okay? Alright. Let’s start with where you are… it’s a small sandy beach in a clearing in the woods. Trees surround it from all sides but the shore. Pine trees, mostly, and lots of shrubs. It’s dusk and there’s nobody else there around, just you-”

“And you,” Daryl supplies softly.

Rick smiles. “Yes, and me; but let’s concentrate on you for the moment, baby. You’re on that beach, there’s a bonfire and the waves are beating rhythmically against the shore, and you are sitting on a blanket, your shirt is off.”

“I… don’t take it off, though,” Daryl protests, “not in front of people. Got… on my back…”

Of course. The scars, Rick remembers, whip marks and dark lashes across Daryl’s back, round burn marks and ragged ridges where the skin was torn and didn’t heal right. Fuck. Way to ruin a perfectly nice fantasy scenario.

It doesn’t have to be ruined, though. “I’ve seen them, sweetheart. You don’t need to be afraid of showing me,” Rick promises softly, and he is near overwhelmed by the need to take Daryl into his arms and kiss him until his insecurities fade away. Just… hold him tight and never let go, and never let anybody hurt him again.

“How can ya call me gorgeous after,” Daryl asks bitterly. Rick can imagine him biting his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth as he looks away, face drawn into a frown, eyes piercing holes in the ground or a wall. “Ya seen ‘em, how can ya still want me?”

“God, Daryl,” Rick sighs, wistful that he can’t be there with his boyfriend to prove how much he really still wants him, “you’re so insanely gorgeous, I don’t know what to say to you. You want me to wax poetic about how much I adore your face or your arms or your hands? You want it, sweetheart, just tell me and I will.”

“Stop,” Daryl scoffs, and he must be blushing, he _sounds_ like he’s blushing. “Just… just get on with yer shit, m’kay? The beach an’ stuff.”

Rick doesn’t think they should be ignoring the problem of Daryl’s lack of self-confidence in the looks department; and seriously, does that man never look in the mirror or something? Like, even _Shane_ , the straightest straight dude to ever be straight, is somewhat attracted to him. But maybe it’s not an issue that can be resolved over the phone. Rick decides that once they’re back together in person, he’s going to devote all the time it will require to convince Daryl that he’s very, _very_ desirable. For now, though, it won’t do to make him even more uncomfortable.

So he agrees, “The beach it is,” and closes his eyes a moment to help himself ease into the soft, warm fantasy of sunset and the reflections of the bonfire cast on Daryl’s skin. “Okay,” he sighs in contentment, “so your shirt, it’s unbuttoned but still draped over your shoulders, showing off that delicious chest of yours. You’re sitting facing the ocean, the wind is sweeping through your hair, there is the warmth from the bonfire on your back and the taste of salt on your lips when you lick them - lick your lips for me, baby,” he commands and a soft hum tells him Daryl has no qualms about obeying.

“You lick your lips, and they taste of salt and of sugar, too, from the candy you’ve eaten. What kind of candy is it, I wonder? Hmmmm… I’d wager it’s a toffee, you like sweet things, don’t you, baby? Mmm, yes, you can still taste the sweetness of the toffee on your tongue, can’t you? I bet if I kissed you, I’d taste it too, the sweet caramel and the salt of the ocean. Your eyes still closed?”

“Yeah,” Daryl breathes out. He sounds more relaxed now as he’s hopefully imagining the taste of the candy and maybe the feeling of Rick’s mouth on his. “Ya taste so good,” the man whispers so softly Rick almost doesn’t catch it, but when he does, his own breath hitches.

He chuckles. “Not as good as you,” he says, “I tasted you and you’re so good, you know that? On this beach, too, imagine I’m there with you. Straddling you, uh-huh, I’ll just… sit across your lap, pressed so close against you, arms around those insanely attractive broad shoulders of yours, my hand in your hair as I kiss you so thoroughly-”

“God,” Daryl groans. “Yer… too good at this,” he complains, or maybe praises, it’s difficult to say with his voice so strained and so low. Rick doesn’t think he’s all that good, he’s getting terribly distracted with images his mind is feeding him and it’s becoming difficult to concentrate on the one scenario he’s come up with to get Daryl hot and bothered.

Then again, maybe he’s good if he god _himself_ hot and bothered.

“Are you hard, baby? Are you hot for me?” Rick asks, daring, and he pushes his hand into the pajama bottoms because he’s not a patient man. He makes a noise into the phone, a needy, lust-filled sound that escapes him when he wraps his fingers around his cock.

“Ya know I am,” Daryl says breezily, like he’s having trouble breathing.

“Touch yourself for me,” Rick pleads, “imagine it’s my hand on your cock, stroking up and down, slow, too slow maybe, to tease you a little. Can you do that?”

He can hear a muffled swear word and then Daryl just pants loudly into the receiver. He licks his lips, picturing it clearly behind closed eyelids: Daryl, spread out on a blanket on that imaginary beach, jeans pushed down to his thighs, his hand wrapped around his cock, jerking it in a slow motion matching Rick’s own perfectly. God, he wants to be there, or anywhere, just as long as Daryl is there with him.

“Do you want me to go faster, baby? Do you want me to make you feel good?” He asks and his voice comes out raspy, raw with desire. It’s no longer lazy and comfortable, no longer this gentle aroused state he was in; instead it’s turning ravenous as Rick thinks about Daryl’s cock leaking drops of precome as the other man’s hand pumps it roughly. He wants to taste it again, damn it, and he wants to reduce Daryl to a moaning mess again, and he says it, he tells the man everything:

“I’d take you so deep in my mouth, sweetheart, and I’d let you fuck my throat, I’d let you choke me with your cock, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Mmmm, you loved it when I choked on it before, and you loved it when I swallowed you down, and God, I loved it too. You’d cry out so prettily for me if I were there with you to do it now, wouldn’t you? I adore your voice, darling, talk to me, give me something-”

“F-fuck,” Daryl whimpers, “‘m gonna come, Rick, I can’t… can’t stop, please, please-”

It’s so hot, so amazing, to hear the man beg for something undefined, and Rick’s own release creeps closer without him meaning to come yet. He groans, makes sure Daryl hears it; he squeezes around the base of his cock to stave off what’s inevitable because he doesn’t want this to end yet - doesn’t want to miss any of the noises Daryl offers him so freely.

“Next time I see you,” he promises hotly, words coming to his mouth unbidden, thoughts unfiltered as he conjures every fantasy he’s had about his boyfriend since the moment he realized he wants him, “I’m going to push you against the closest wall and I’m going to _suck you off_ until you come for me, and then I’m gonna put my tongue all over you, lapping it all up, and I‘m gonna put my tongue _in you_ , and I’m gonna make you come again-”

“Rick!” Daryl cries out, and then lets out a drawn-out, muffled moan, followed by a series of loud inhales-exhales as he rides out his orgasm in waves.

Rick strokes himself faster, listening to the sweet sounds Daryl lets him hear, and his own orgasm isn’t far off, but he needs something more. He groans softly and demands, “Talk to me, baby, say anything to me-”

And Daryl complies, he speaks slowly, voice hoarse and still laced with the burst of pleasure he’s just experienced: “When I see ya, ‘m gonna let ya fuck me, Rick, gonna do anythin’ ya ask, gonna let ya do anythin’ t’me. An’ yer gonna let me touch you, yer gonna let me suck ya off, I been thinkin’ ‘bout it so long, and God, I love ya so much, so fuckin’ much it’s crazy… Cum for me, Rick. Yer gonna cum for me so good, ain’cha, c’mon, _baby_ -”

The promises spilling from Daryl’s mouth are so hot, and Rick can’t help but moan at the images his mind supplies of Daryl pliant and willing underneath him, writhing in pleasure and biting his lower lip to stop all noises he’d be no doubt embarrassed about making, and then of Daryl on top of him, kissing him good and deep and pounding into him relentlessly, holding him down without effort, helpless to the onslaught of pleasure; but it’s the endearment in that blissed-out, deep voice that does it for Rick, and he comes with a shout he muffles with the back of his free hand, dropping the phone somewhere in the process.

He needs a moment to collect himself before he wipes his hand on the fabric of his pajama pants and finds the phone tucked between his shoulder and pillow.

“Told you I’d get you to talk dirty to me,” he brags in deep satisfaction.

“Fuck off,” Daryl counters, but it’s with an amused chuckle. “Yer makin’ it impossible to stay an upstandin’ citizen, Grimes. Yer corruptin’ me.”

Rick laughs at that, feeling genuinely happy like he has no business being when his plan’s not even halfway through. But it’s not like he can help it. He’s in love. He’s even more in love now that he’s getting to know Daryl Dixon, the FBI agent who swears like a sailor and doesn’t take off his shirt in front of people, and likes being told he’s a good boy, and has a teasing, biting sense of humor that can probably turn mean at times. He’s a different man to who Rick’s gotten to know over the last few weeks, but he’s not that different. It’s like that old Daryl was simply a subdued version of the real one hiding underneath.

Rick realizes how tired he is when he has to fight to stifle a yawn. He mostly succeeds, but Daryl hears it anyway, and chuckles again, this time definitely mocking.

“Ya better get to sleep,” he says. “Whatever it is yer doin’, ‘s probably gonna need a well-rested Rick Grimes, yea?”

“Talk to me until I fall asleep,” Rick demands unreasonably, preparing himself for rejection because of how silly of a thing it is to ask.

But in spite of the ridiculousness of the request, Daryl does, and Rick falls asleep within minutes to the sound of Daryl’s voice calmly listing the ingredients he claims to be reading off of a packet of instant noodles.

In the morning, Rick doesn’t dwell either on the events of the evening, no matter how pleasant they were, or the things he’s already accomplished. He only has enough time to drop by for a breakfast in the hotel restaurant - a very poor breakfast, by the way, worse than even Lori’s attempts at pancakes used to be - and he takes a taxi to the airport. At nine, he’s got a flight to Boston which he can’t miss because of the meeting planned at two in the afternoon. It’s a four-hour flight and Rick spends it alternating between napping and reading the Harry Potter book. When he sleeps, he dreams about Daryl and himself being wizards and using lots of colorful magical spells for all kinds of not-child-friendly things, which he has to admit isn’t an unpleasant thing to be dreaming about. Definitely beats nightmares.

The way from the airport in Boston takes almost forty minutes, so Rick makes it to the destination barely in time. He tips off the Uber driver who got him there in spite of the enormous traffic jams and heads into the mansion. It’s one of the most luxurious buildings he’d ever seen and that’s taking into consideration the visit at Senator Monroe’s yesterday; the elevation is encrusted with a metal which looks to be gold, but surely cannot be, and at least some of the windows appear to be made of crystal. This kind of display of wealth is so ill-thought out, it all but screams _criminal_.

Rick’s not there to meet a criminal, though. He’s there to meet her daughter.

Lydia Mason is fourteen years old, the same age as Carl. She’s changed a lot since Rick saw her last. She doesn’t look a lot like her mother, but she’s definitely showing Alpha’s influence in the way she carries herself, huddled and uncertain. She flinches when Rick offers her a hand to shake, like she expects it to hit her, and Rick remembers vividly that she used to return from visits with her mother with fresh bruises all over.

“I don’t know what you’d like to learn from me, Detective,” the girl says when she leads Rick to the dining hall, accompanied by a maid and three bodyguards. Rick can bet all four of the adults work for the Whisperers. It seems like the shut-down operation didn’t work as well as expected. “I have no information and I don’t talk to the police.”

“I’m not here to learn, Miss Mason,” Rick informs pleasantly. “I’m here to provide information, if anything. I know you serve as a link between your mother and her, let’s call them _outside sources_. I also realize I’m in a precarious position right now because there is a target painted on my back after what I did yesterday.”

“He’s going to kill you,” Lydia agrees, and she seems sad. _Poor child_ , Rick thinks, because it’s easy to see how the girl isn’t happy in the golden cage built for her by her mother. “Beta. He’s angrier than ever. They both are.”

“Yes, I’m counting on it,” Rick says cheerily. “Angry people make mistakes. Such as going after me. Your crazy mother and her guard dog should know better.”

The words work as expected: the bodyguards and the maid are all visibly riled up and pay more attention to the smirk on Rick’s face than to what his hands are doing under the table. This part of the plan was a risk, but Rick’s bet paid off: it’s extremely easy to plant the tiny listening device on the bottom side of the table’s surface. Nobody expected him to waltz into the enemy’s stronghold and taunt the princess, and that element of surprise is why it works out. Hopefully, he can make it out of here alive and catch the return flight to Alexandria before Beta arrives.

He’s got no doubt Beta’s already been alerted to his presence in Boston.

“This Fourth of July, my family’s going to be real happy with America,” he announces with a self-satisfied smile. “The Whisperers finally biting the dust, that’s something this whole nation’s going to be celebrating. Barbecues all over the country. Maybe the prison will let Alpha watch the fireworks on TV or something. It’s her last Fourth of July, after all. Do you think death row inmates get barbecue?”

“You’re talking about executing my _mother_ , sir,” Lydia protests harshly, but there isn’t a lot of regret on her face. Just a slightly worried look when she steals a glance at her maid. It’s a relief that she’s more concerned about what the maid hears than the way Rick talks about the topic, like he’s really finding it worthy of celebration that this young girl’s mother is going to suffer the capital punishment for her life of crime. It’s not that. He’s happy Alpha won’t be a threat anymore, but it’s not like he’s here to rub it in Lydia’s face. He’s just using her in a way which would be cruel if there was any affection left in Lydia towards her mother.

But there isn’t. Instead, there’s only that worried glance at the maid who’s almost definitely one of the Whisperers. Rick doesn’t doubt every bit of this conversation is going to be related to Beta in the tiniest detail.

He’s counting on it.

“I hope you succeed, whatever it is you’re doing, Mister Grimes,” Lydia tells him when Rick is leaving. She’s taken the opportunity to speak to him out of earshot of her Whisperer entourage. “Your side’s not all as good as you think.”

“Oh, believe me, Miss Mason, I know,” Rick assures her with a smile. “Take care of yourself. It’s going to get better soon.”

She nods, and Rick feels her sad eyes on his back as he leaves. He regrets he can’t do anything for the girl right now. He comforts himself with the knowledge that if everything goes as he intends it to, she, too, will be free of her nightmare soon.

Once he’s a safe distance away from the mansion, Rick catches a taxi to the airport. From the car, he texts Paul Rovia. He only has to wait a few seconds for a reply. He smirks in satisfaction.

Everything is in motion now. All that is left to do is wait.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Rick's being uncooperative and I don't know what I'm doing here. The number of chapters went up because the man refuses to keep it in his pants even when he and Daryl are separated by state lines. 
> 
> But the grand finale is fast approaching... unless Rick decides to do what he wants again.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick returns home, learns new things and reunites with a friend.

Eric Raleigh picks Rick up from the airport in DC. It’s a bit unexpected because Rick didn’t exactly let anyone know he was coming back already; he likes to pretend his carefully scheduled plan is more random than it really is. It would be a huge blow to his intended outcome if the Whisperers traced his movements and found out everything he’s been doing. He was careful not to use the credit card or not to sign anything that could get out there, but of course, some things couldn’t be hidden. It’s possible the FBI was keeping a shorter leash on him than he thought. If that is the case, he might be in trouble.

“Don’t worry,” Eric says in reassurance, “I’m not here because of something sinister. Paul called your sister, wanted to know when you’d be back. She didn’t want to tell, but Paul mentioned he has the resources to hack into the Kingdom Airlines databases and find out by himself, only any time wasted on that would mean another time you went unprotected. She finally relented.”

“She booked me seven different flights to DC, and not all of them were to the Reagan,” Rick remarks and Eric nods.

“We took turns,” he supplies. “Aaron was going to be in Dulles tomorrow, and all night shift flights fell to Paul because he loves watching planes at night.”

“Riiight,” Rick mutters. “So you’re supposed to be my protection? How exactly?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Eric laughs. 

And really, Rick doesn’t want to judge any book by its cover, after all he’s been fooled very thoroughly and very recently. But Eric just doesn’t seem to be the type of man trained in combat and capable of handling the hitmen the Whisperers might be sending Rick’s way. Sure, he’s probably fought many battles, he’s a real Pride warrior and he’s definitely brave enough, but that’s not going to be enough in a shootout. 

Then again, Paul wouldn’t have sent either of his lovers into the fray if he thought it would put them in danger. 

“Do you know where Michonne and Judith are?” Rick asks, changing the subject.

“Nope,” Eric replies cheerfully. “I haven’t been told. Paul took them somewhere and returned without them, but he said for security reasons, it’s completely classified.”

Rick nods. Good, then. Seems like he was right to entrust his girls’ safety to the agent after all. 

“By the way, I’ve been dying to ask,” Eric says, “and please don’t take it the wrong way, it’s just that I’m too curious sometimes. Have you always liked both?”

Rick looks up at him, confused. “Both... what?” 

“Well, women and men,” Eric clarifies with a smile. 

Rick feels himself blushing. Of course Eric is aware of his relationship with Daryl. Paul doesn’t keep secrets from his lovers. “I… don’t normally like men,” he admits softly. “I’m very new to this  _ homosexual _ business, okay? I think I’m still mostly straight, just Daryl is the exception. And it doesn’t really matter anyway because I intend to spend the rest of my life with him, so…” 

He trails off, realizing he’s probably said too much when he notices the look of approval on Eric’s face. For a while, the only sound in the car is the rumble of the engine as Rick pretends to intently study the landscapes behind the windows. It’s a slightly awkward silence which usually stretches between two strangers who are forced by circumstance to spend some time in one another’s presence. They aren’t complete strangers, but it’s just a passing acquaintance between them through Aaron. To be completely, absolutely honest, Rick was just never interested in getting to know Aaron’s husband better. He didn’t have a reason to; besides Aaron, they have literally nothing in common.

Well. Had. Because now Rick’s involved with a man so apparently, they have something in common after all. 

“Would it be really weird if I asked you a sex-related question?” Rick asks before his brain can catch up to what his mouth is doing. 

And he’s instantly mortified because  _ what the fuck Grimes _ . It’s one thing to ask Shane, his friend of three decades, for links to gay porn sites; but making inquiries of this nature of a man Rick barely knows is a different story altogether. He wonders if it falls under sexual harassment. They’re not exactly in a situation that would call for such labels, Rick’s not in a position of power over Eric or anything, but still, it’s probably inappropriate. Anyway, even if it was a proper topic of conversation between very tentative friends, he shouldn’t be thinking about such stuff right now; he’s got so much to do still and preparation should be the only thing on his mind. 

Damn Daryl for being distracting even when he’s not there. 

“I’m all ears,” Eric says, grinning but never taking his eyes off the road. 

Rick’s now facing a conundrum. He could ask his question and maybe have his curiosity satisfied. Or he can stay silent and save himself the inevitable shame that’s sure to follow him until the end of days. 

Of course, being Rick Grimes, he picks the first option.

“How does a dude go about having anal sex?”

Eric steals a quick glance at him before looking back to the road ahead. When he talks next, he’s blushing in angry red splotches. Unlike Daryl, he’s not very attractive while blushing. At least not to Rick. Then again, no other man but Daryl is really all that attractive to him even in the best of times. 

“Well, he says, “I suppose you know the basics, right? What goes where. I don’t think I could explain that without the involvement of alcohol. I mean, Aaron always says I’m such a prude…”

“I’m a prude,” Rick confesses. In the mood of oversharing, he adds, “I got kinda weirded out by a video of a dude licking another dude’s ass. But then I sort of told Daryl I want to do it to him and, yeah, I do. Other things too. So I need a gay guru because I don’t know how to go about all that.”

“Oh my,” Eric says and giggles, but his face shows something like disbelief. Rick hopes the guy’s brain isn’t broken now. Aaron would probably kill him. 

“You know, you picked the worst guy for this kind of talk,” Eric tells him apologetically. “But I’ll try? I’ll try,” he adds, and frowns. 

Then he sighs, and goes: “So the most important thing in all this is, you and your partner must establish boundaries first. What the two of you are comfortable doing, and what you won’t do no matter what. Umm. Some couples don’t indulge in that sort of thing at all. Anal sex, I mean. It’s not something everyone likes. I, uh, I don’t. So before you do it, you’ve got to make sure you’re both on the same page about it. Yeah?”

“Okay, yeah,” Rick agrees. He’d never do anything to Daryl the man wouldn’t explicitly consent to. “Discuss it first, gotcha. Any other tips?”

“Lube,” Eric supplies immediately. “Lots of lube, or whoever’s getting it won’t really enjoy it. There’s no such thing as too much slick, okay? It’s really important.” 

Rick nods in acknowledgment, and he makes a mental note to buy some strawberry-scented lubricant after Beta is all dealt with and Daryl comes back to him. 

“Also, don’t rush it. Preparation is key,” Eric says. “Especially since neither of you had done this before, if I’m not wrong. Take your time, make sure both of you are ready, and it should be fine. Ummm. You know about the prostate?...”

Shaking his head this time, Rick wonders what Eric means. Like. Yeah, Rick knows he’s got something down there called a prostate, he knows there’s risk of prostate cancer, he heard an examination is downright unpleasant, but that’s about it. What’s that got to do with sex? 

“Oh boy, you really should’ve asked Aaron. Or Paul,” Eric mutters. “Right. So there’s this gland, ummm, it’s connected to your, umm, my God, no, I can’t do this, you can just  _ fucking _ Google it!”

He hits the brakes so violently, the car gives a lurch forward and Rick’s glad for the seatbelts because he’s so surprised by both the swear word and the sudden stop, he would’ve likely fallen against the windshield if he wasn’t strapped in. He realizes they’re in front of his house when Eric leans back against his seat, exhaling, and says,

“No offense, but I’m never letting you ask me questions again.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rick agrees easily. “Figure I should’ve just used the Internet from the start, huh? Was just sort of scared of what I’d find.”

“Seriously, if you need answers, ask Paul. He’ll be happy to help, he’ll also mock you relentlessly, but he’ll answer anything,” Eric promises. “He’s so open about this stuff, it scares me sometimes. The things he told me…” He shudders at the memory.

Rick already knows he’ll never ask Paul Rovia about anything sexual ever, but he smiles encouragingly and lightly pats Eric on the shoulder. 

“Thanks anyway, you helped loads,” he assures before getting out of the car. 

He hears Eric mumble something about  _ new gays and their Goddamn libidos, Christ _ , but he doesn’t reply, just heads on home. As expected, the house is completely empty when he arrives, no sign of any of its usual inhabitants or even the FBI agents who were staked out on the porch before Rick left for his little interstate trip. There’s a lovely little note on the fridge, stuck to the surface with Michonne’s samurai sword magnet. It reads:

_ I’m gonna kill you, Grimes _ .

Rick smiles fondly at the message before he pulls the note off the fridge, crumples it and throws it in the trash. He’s got a lot to do, now, no time to waste on sentiment. He’ll apologize to Michonne later with all the chocolate she can eat. Of course, he could use her here, with him, but to be honest, he’d rather have her with the children in case the plan backfires and Rick’s family needs the protection.

The things to be done are aplenty and Rick starts with the downstairs. First of all, he uses the bug detector to check how bugged the house really is. He finds sixteen small listening devices in the living room, a few more in the kitchen, some in each of the bedrooms and the bathroom. He leaves them be; they’re all planted by the FBI and removing them would be far too suspicious to whoever’s listening. Going upstairs, Rick is relieved to find that there are very few bugs there: apparently Paul’s people respected Rick’s wishes and didn’t go there too much. Those devices, Rick removes. 

Afterwards, he returns downstairs and secures all the windows and sets up some of the nano-cameras he got from Dr. Porter, then he moves on to the backyard door and installs the noise-makers he purchased in Dallas. The front door, he leaves as it is because it’s the most likely entry point for any potential attack. He just doesn’t want to be nastily surprised if Beta suddenly learns how to do things with subtlety. 

He’s almost done with the first layer of security measures when there’s a knock on the door. It’s too early, Rick’s pretty sure it’s nothing to do with the Whisperers, but one can never be too careful; he retrieves the gun he got himself in Texas, a beautiful, antique Colt Python, very similar to the first revolver his father gave him. It’s wonderfully heavy in his hand, well-balanced and with a really comfortable grip. Rick has used multiple guns in his life: the standard issue Glock 43, various shotguns, revolvers and even a semi-automatic rifle that time he did the training session filming. Out of all those guns, he likes the Python the most. It’s got quite a powerful recoil, but nothing he can’t handle, and it makes up for it with the improved accuracy and, especially, with the bullet velocity which results in a much longer range than most revolvers. 

Rick holds it firmly in hand, safety off, as he carefully opens the front door. 

“Rick,” Shane says, relieved to see him before he notices the gun. His eyes widen. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, “whatcha think you’re doing, man?”

Rolling his eyes, Rick pulls Shane inside and closes the door. He locks the safety back on the gun and pockets it, then heads towards the kitchen, motioning for his best friend to follow. 

“How’d you know I was back?” He asks, turning on the coffee machine. 

“Your friend from the FBI called me,” Shane replies tensely. “Rovia, not your loverboy. Said you were back and probably needed a babysitter.”

“I don’t,” Rick protests indignantly. “What? I don’t need a babysitter. That little shit’s got something else coming to him, you mark my words…”

“Yeah, maybe, but man, whatever you’re doing, I reckon you could use a friendly face,” Shane says and then looks at him. “Because no matter what you think, you’re still my best mate, you’re my  _ brother _ and, fuck, dude, I’d fuckin’ die for you. You know that, right? You don’t doubt that?”

“I don’t,” Rick admits. “Fuck, Shane. You screwed up royally, okay? Should’ve told me. Should’ve told me everything from the start. How’d you even know Daryl, huh? The truth this time, please.”

Shane shakes his head ruefully. “Man. It was when I was in DC, before I transferred here. The whole Homicide department had joint training with the FBI, on handling organized crime something or another. We had some lectures and he kinda just sat back during those, silent and, you know how he is, right? So yeah, he was like that. But then there was the practical training part, with takedown methods and shit, and Dixon was the one training us. And damn it, man, he’s one tough son of a bitch. Strong as shit, but also damn near silent. Fast like a snake attack. By the end of the first day, he’d knocked all of us on our asses and didn’t even break a sweat. I think the only thing we learned from him was how to gracefully take a beating, you know?”

Rick grins. “That must’ve been painful for your pride, huh?”

“You have no idea, mate,” Shane agrees and offers Rick his trademark crooked smile that makes his face look almost boyish. “But he wasn’t so bad, turned out, he joined us for a beer and he even told us some shit from his early days with the Bureau. To be honest, he wasn’t that different to how he was here. Just cussed a whole damn much more.”

“Yup, sounds about right,” Rick says, chuckling. “Okay. You should’ve told me all that earlier, you know that? Shouldn’t have left me in the dark.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shane says. “Bastard said he’d tell you when the time was right, and he threatened me with legal stuff if I as much as breathed a word of it to anyone. Then you and he started this weird-ass dance around each other and I was sure he’d told you. I mean, it was logical to assume, ain’t it? Who the fuck tries to date a guy without spilling secrets? Like, actual life-changing, giant-ass secrets, not some Sunday church-goer gossip or some shit.”

Rick sighs because, yeah, he also would’ve preferred if Daryl didn’t hide shit from him. But what’s done is done. Since he already pretty much forgave Daryl - enough to have had amazing phone sex with him, at least - it would be very unfair to still hold a grudge against Shane. Admittedly, Shane isn’t trying to earn his forgiveness with adorable half-smiles and dirty talk, but Rick will let it slide just this once. And anyway, he wouldn’t want Shane to talk dirty to him. His smiles also aren’t very appealing. 

Still, when Shane looks at him hopefully and asks, “Are we good?”

Rick hesitates only a moment: “We’re good, brother,” he says and squeezes Shane’s shoulder. 

They’ve never had a real fight before. It’s so weird, Rick thinks as Shane draws him into a bone-breaking hug; all friends fight sometimes, but they never did. They’ve known one another since they were both about five years old; Shane’s family moved into the countryside to the plot across from the Grimes farmland. The boys hit off instantly. They went to school together, played together, learned new things together. Then Rick’s father remarried and Carol came into their lives, but it didn’t shake the bond between the boys. Rick’s new sister simply joined them in friendship and actually taught them some very useful things, such as bat-swinging and butterfly-hunting. 

They teased each other mercilessly, they pulled the silliest pranks on each other. Rick once posted an advertisement in Shane’s name to a gay porn magazine when they were fifteen; Shane’s parents didn’t find it very funny, but Shane, instead of getting angry, decided it was brilliant. He retaliated by setting Rick up on a date with the school’s most popular cheerleaders… all of them. At the same time, in the same place. Without telling anyone, not even Rick. The whole squad gave Rick hell for the rest of the school year, but Rick didn’t mind: he thought it was a perfect revenge. 

Like, nothing made them fight, ever. They didn’t fight when Rick got with Lori even though Shane liked her, too. They didn’t fight when Shane decided to leave Atlanta and move to another state entirely. They didn’t fight after Lori died and Rick was too devastated to talk to anyone, and they didn’t even fight when Rick took his remaining family to the Greene farm without telling anyone, just disappearing off the grid. Through thick and thin, come hell or high water, Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh always had each other’s backs. 

They still do.

“You’re gonna help me,” Rick announces once their very manly and brotherly hug comes to a natural end. “To be honest, I could really use you. I… actually don’t think I can do it all by myself.”

“Unbelievable,” Shane says with mock surprise, “Rick Grimes admits he’s not a superhero? What the fuck, man, is the world ending? Should we expect zombies next?”

“Shut up,” Rick laughs. “Just, come on upstairs. I’m gonna tell you what’s going on. Just don’t shout at me… I know you’re not gonna like it.” 

He’s right. Shane hates it. But at least he doesn’t shout. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is THE chapter, so of course it's giving me trouble. I hate writing action scenes. I'm so bad at it.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations continue and an unexpected guest arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has the chapter number become undefined again? Yes, yes it has. I know precisely what events have to take place, but the story forces other events to take place alongside those that already have to be there. So it's getting longer. I hope everyone's not tired with all of this yet.
> 
> By the way... this is not THE chapter after all. That one's coming sometime within the next three days.

The last few days of June and the first two of July are warmer than Rick would’ve expected up here in Virginia. Back in Georgia, temperatures in the high eighties wouldn’t be anything unusual, but here in Alexandria, four days in a row barely below the nineties are something for the history books. There are state-wide warnings on the news, instructing people to stay in their air-conditioned homes when possible. Ads on TV have changed into an never-ending barrage of ice-cream commercials and long blocks about oceanside vacation which sounds increasingly tempting with every passing hour. For a moment, Rick actually considers the all-inclusive trip to Hawaii from one of the local travel agencies, but then Shane brings more cold beer and Rick forgets all about Hawaii.

Waiting for the plan to bear fruit is the worst part of it all, for Rick. Without his kids at home, he’s got literally nothing to do. He’s already managed to install an all-new monitoring system all over the rooms downstairs, then extended it to encompass the garden as well. He spends hours on the phone, talking to either Michonne or Carl. He doesn’t really contact Daryl much, he doesn’t want to draw anyone’s attention to his agent boyfriend in any manner, but that leaves him majorly lonely most of the time.

It’s such a good thing Shane is back by his side, because in all probability, Rick would’ve died of boredom otherwise. As it is, Shane took Michonne’s bedroom for the time being - with her explicit, albeit long-distance consent - and he got a week off at work to keep Rick company.

It should all be over by the time he has to go back.

“Aaron called,” Shane says, leaning back against the giant pillow in the shape of a cat’s head. Michonne brought it with her when she moved in at the end of May. It’s supposedly artisan-made. Rick can sort of believe it: most artisan-made items are damn ugly and this thing? This patchwork nightmare in the most garish color combinations he’d ever seen? It’s a Goddamn eyesore. He’s pretty sure it cost about six times too much.

Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Shane certainly seems to like the pillow, though he’s as obviously biased when it comes to anything about Michonne as Rick is where Daryl is concerned.

“What’d Aaron want?” Rick asks from where he’s reclining comfortably on Michonne’s rocking chair. He wouldn’t normally dare, but since Michonne is a state away, he reckons it’s somewhat safe. He might not get murdered in his sleep.

“Just an update,” Shane replies with a shrug. “The pond is getting smaller, the fish are circling closer to the bait. Won’t take long now.”

“I think the day after tomorrow’s it,” Rick supplies, shrugging. “I’d say, both will go at once. I expect they’ll want to make it a statement, and what better day for a shoot-out than the day when it definitely won’t be heard over the fireworks?”

Shane sighs. “Really, I hope you’re right. Sitting on my ass, waiting, it’s driving me super-fucking-crazy. We’re sitting ducks here, Rick, we ain’t gonna be able to do shit if you’re wrong.”

They’ve had this conversation before. Rick is well aware of the risks involved. His plan has more holes than Carl’s favorite Swiss cheese and it relies heavily on his enemy acting the same he always has. Rick counts on Beta still being the same force of nature of a man he always used to be, rushing without a second thought into something and likely to abandon any plans he had beforehand. Arrogant, too, so certain of his own superiority over everybody else in the world he didn’t need to worry about them beating him. Judging from his recent activity, it’s very probable he’s still like that; subtlety really doesn’t seem to be his forte. Take the Evil Pizza Incident: Beta was the man who coerced Glenn Rhee into adding the shrooms, personally, like he wasn’t a wanted criminal and could just show up wherever with no consequences. He took into account the fact that the news about him being free all this time was not released to the public. Rhee identified him from a photograph only after the FBI took the case.

That attempt was so ham-fisted, so… dumb, Rick wouldn’t believe it could be attributed to the second in command of one of the most dangerous crime organizations in the States. Only, it’s not the first time Beta’s been less than careful. He’s not much for a planner, he’s always left that to the boss. He’s more of a brute. His intellect isn’t lacking, he just prefers not to use it for his activity as Beta. It’s pretty astonishing, in fact. With the guy’s brains, he could be a foe to be reckoned with, but he’s not. By choice, he’s not. He’s still a formidable enemy, but most of it is because he’s big, ruthless and unpredictable in a fight.

Rick created a set of circumstances that should tempt Beta into an all-out war. Hopefully, he’s going to go about it in his usual way.

“We’re gonna win this, Shane,” Rick promises and throws a bag of chips at his best friend.

Shane rolls his eyes as he catches it. “How? By lazing about, drinking booze and eating potato chips? What the fuck man, you wanna, I dunno, discuss girls or something to add to the pretty picture?”

Rick shakes his head. “Don’t be dramatic,” he says, “and eat your snacks. Paul said it’s going to work out and he’s a professional. We gotta trust him.”

“He’s a damn fed,” Shane mutters with disgust. “Ain’t gonna trust a damn fed. I told you he was too nice. Should’ve listened to me.”

Apparently, he’s still bitter that even though he knew about Daryl being with the Bureau, Paul Rovia’s identity reveal was as much a surprise to him as to everyone else. From what he told Rick, he figured Daryl should’ve told him. Should’ve trusted him. He knows it’s not all precisely about trust or the lack of it, more like it was about keeping a job and not going against direct orders, but still. Shane’s just the kind of guy who likes to bitch about something or another.

At least his homophobic days are long gone now. It’s strange how quickly he warmed up to Eric of all people.

“He’s just so damn nice,” Shane explains, “and man, you’re a good cook, but that guy? He can make some real mean spaghetti.”

“Damn man, you’re easy,” Rick accuses. “Thirty years of friendship and what do I get? A nice guy with amazing spaghetti-making skills walks by and I get kicked to the curb.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “And anyway, it’s not like you’ve been very faithful in this relationship, Grimes. Got your eyes on your phone screen all the damn time. Waiting for your boy to write you?”

“My boy’s five years older than you,” Rick informs him and chuckles when Shane’s eyes go comically wide. “Yeah, see? I’m the sugar baby here, attracting older men with my assets-”

“Your what?” Shane asks incredulously. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but your bony assets wouldn’t attract nothing save a starving mutt, brother.”

Glowering, Rick threatens: “Just for that, I’m not sharing the ice-cream Eric’s bringing later.”

He does, though.

When Eric, Aaron and their daughter Gracie arrive at Rick’s place on Thursday, the third of July, the house suddenly doesn’t really feel so desolate and lonely as before. The sound of an infant babbling and gurgling is enough to fill the space and Rick actually has lots of fun playing with the baby - or rather, playing with toys while the baby watches what he does sometimes. Gracie is too young to be really able to use any of Judith’s toys besides some of the rattlers and a completely unused teething ring still in its package that never made it into Rick’s daughter’s hands for some reason. Still, the other three men in the room don’t seem to mind as Rick attempts to elicit giggles from the baby.

Both Aaron and Shane record videos. Rick doesn’t ask why Shane needs one. He’s pretty sure it’s going to make it into Michonne’s hands sooner or later.

“Paul’s getting everyone out of range for _the day_ ,” Eric says. “He’s subtle about it, don’t worry. It’s hard for him to work behind the scenes like this, but he’ll pull through.”

“You guys gonna bring the baby into your creepy badass spy unit too?” Shane asks, shaking his head. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Eric, devouring the homemade ice-cream the man brought along by the spoonful. He’s also pretending to be watching Marie Kondo on the TV he insisted on hauling up here from the living room.

They’re all gathered in Judith’s bedroom because it’s the largest in the house, and also because Rick’s named it headquarters for the operation they’ve all gotten involved in. Maybe the civilian involvement of the Raleighs isn’t ideal, Rick certainly wouldn’t have called on them for help, but he’s not the one who brought them in. And anyways, he’s grateful. Aaron hasn’t been very helpful besides offering emotional support, but Eric? Eric is a damn powerhouse when it comes to secret ops.

“I’ve removed all knives from the kitchen,” Eric says, ignoring Shane for the time being. “Hid them in other places, easy to reach when you know where they are. I’ll show you later. You want to have access to weapons if the gun’s not viable for some reason.”

“Your Daddy is a treasure, isn’t he, lil’ duchess?” Rick asks Gracie who crawls happily towards the bean bed Rick usually occupies when he’s not sitting on floors, gleefully talking at babies. “A regular G.I.Joe. How’re we supposed to measure up, huh?”

“Don’t make fun of my new best bud, Grimes,” Shane warns. Apparently he really likes the ice-cream.

Aaron looks up from watching the monitoring live capture from the street outside, frowning. “Man, aren’t you getting too comfy with my husband?”

“I told him he’s easy,” Rick sighs, shaking his head.

“Frack off, the both of you. This guy,” Shane points at Eric with his head, “he’s feeding me. Don’t y’all know? The way to a dude’s heart is through the damn stomach. Grimes should know, ain’t that how you won your boy?”

Eric and Aaron look at each other and laugh.

“Umm, no,” Eric says. “According to Paul, Daryl was crushing _hard_ waaay before he even met Rick in real life.”

“Training videos, man. He was apparently really hooked on the _cute guy with curly hair from the gun safety training vid_ ,” Aaron supplies. “Took a copy home, rewatched it multiple times. Sounds kinda creepy now that I’m saying it, but Paul’s convinced it wasn’t really creepy at all. Daryl’s an adorable man, he’s not the stalker type. Or the _jack it to a training vid_ type, I guess? Though I can’t be sure about that…”

“Stop talking, love,” Eric admonishes gently.

Rick feels his face burning, and he’s pretty sure he’s not weirded out at the idea of Daryl _jacking it_ to that gun safety course he did for the Academy back when he was Detective. He looked quite good back then, top form, nice musculature, clean-shaven and sharp. He gets why Daryl liked that Rick Grimes. He’s just a bit astounded that instead of being disappointed upon meeting him in person, Daryl actually fell for him. The current Rick Grimes is a slob in comparison to the one in that video. He shaves semi-regularly again, but usually he has at least two days worth of beard on him; his body is softer and his sense of style doesn’t include form-fitting suits anymore. Jeans and t-shirts in neutral colors, that’s what he likes. He’s a suburban dad and he looks his part.

Well, except for the Colt Python in its sheath against his hip.

“Ain’t bothered,” Rick says, “even if he did naughty stuff with that vid. Heck, that’s actually flattering.”

“Yeah, if you’re weird,” Shane agrees. “The two of you’s a match made in heaven, that’s all I’m saying. We all know about the Beauty and the Beast, now get ready for the Madman and the Creep.”

“You’re banned from memes forever,” Eric informs Shane with an eyeroll. “Now are we done discussing Daryl’s sex life prior to meeting Rick? Can we return to the topic which is actually important right now? Like… the Fourth of July party?”

“What’s there to talk about? I’m not letting you set up explosives in my living room,” Rick says, trying to sound very firm in his conviction.

Eric sighs. “It could work,” he argues.

Everyone just looks at him funny, including his own daughter, although with Gracie, it might be because she’s very focused on filling her diaper. Aaron doesn’t even wait for the smell to spread through the room; he seems incredibly content to pick up the infant and carry her to the bathroom.

“He doesn’t get to change her much at home,” Eric explains, “he’s always in the garage. But anyway. I wasn’t going to suggest a bomb. I was going to suggest an escape route. You could use one, in case something fails, right? A place to regroup and all.”

Rick thinks about it. He hasn’t actually considered a scenario where his plan fails and he survives which speaks a lot about the kind of person he is. His most detailed fail-safe plan includes Shane finishing Beta off in case Rick is down, and it’s not very detailed at all, it’s simply what he expects might happen if he’s taken out before he can finish the job.

But here Eric offers another option, and Rick would be a fool not to take it into account.

“I’m listening.”

So Eric takes out a map of the Alexandria suburbs that he prepared himself (apparently, he’s a cartographer as a hobby). He also retrieves a few colorful markers and begins to draw the possible escape routes, explaining each option as he marks it.

“Of course, the easiest way to get out of here fast is if you take a couple of bikes from Aaron’s place. He’s built a few nice customs lately, I’m sure he won’t mind you borrowing them,” he offers with a smile. “I hope you’re both comfortable with motorcycles?”

“I’m fine with them,” Shane says, “that guy though, he hasn’t been on a bike in years.”

“Come on, it’s like riding a bicycle, you don’t really forget it,” Rick protests because he won’t be painted as the weak link here, no way, “and besides, I took the FXE for a ride yesterday. So she doesn’t go wild while Daryl’s not here.”

“... Rick, it’s a bike,” Shane reminds him.

“Shut up.”

They work out the details and then Rick goes with Aaron to deliver four motorcycles to the convenient locations marked by Eric on the map. They also pick up some fried chicken for dinner as they make it back. Rick’s not a fan of unhealthy take-out, but he’s definitely not in the mood to cook right now and anyway, it would be difficult without any knives in their proper location. So they get enough fried chicken with roasted potatoes to feed three grown men and a Shane Walsh, then return to Rick’s place - only to discover they may have not bought enough food.

“Surprise,” Paul mutters unhappily under Rick’s glare.

Because Rick has reason to glare at him: the man is standing by the window of Judith’s bedroom, accompanied by none other than Special Agent Daryl Dixon, dressed all in black and looking mighty fine, like the hellish heatwave doesn't even bother him.

It’s like a Disney moment or something. Rick can’t help himself, forgetting his ire with Paul he stares at the man he loves - his Goddamn boyfriend he hasn’t seen in over a week - and Daryl stares back, and the world doesn’t exist around them when they both start walking towards each other at the same time. Then Daryl’s arms are around Rick’s shoulders and Rick’s arms go around Daryl’s waist, and they sort-of hug briefly before Rick presses his lips to Daryl’s in a kiss that’s almost chaste at first.

Only at first, though, because damn it, he’s not good at self-control.

“That’s not suitable for children,” Aaron quips somewhere behind them, but Rick doesn’t care. He can taste cigarettes and Eric’s homemade ice-cream on Daryl’s tongue, and the mix of flavors is intoxicating. Daryl makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that sounds a lot like a groan, and that’s when Rick realizes he has the man pushed against the wall, leg pressed firmly between his thighs, and yes, maybe that’s not appropriate when they have company.

He licks into Daryl’s mouth one more time before regretfully stepping back. Composing himself somewhat, he clears his throat and says,

“So, ummm. Didn’t expect to see you.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Shane calls, then casts a quick, guilty glance at Gracie who’s very much asleep in the nest of blankets Eric built for her in Judith’s bed.

“He actually threatened to out me at work if I didn’t tell him everything,” Paul grumbles, dismayed. “That’s not cool, man. You don’t do that to your partner.”

“Good thing we ain’t partners then, innit?” Daryl supplies, shrugging. His shoulders look particularly delicious when he does that.

“That’s cold,” Paul protests, “I wouldn’t drop you just because you got demoted.”

Daryl rolls his eyes and moves to take Rick’s hand in his. He squeezes Rick’s fingers like he feels the need to reassure him that yes, he’s there, he’s fine and he’s absolutely not going anywhere. It makes Rick believe everything’s going to be fine, this tiny touch; and he’s suddenly very happy that Daryl’s such a stubborn bastard and got Paul to bring him here. Yes, it’s dangerous, all that is going on, and yes, Daryl’s at risk the longer he stays at Rick’s place, but… it’s so much better already, with him there. So much easier to calm down and just wait for what’s coming.

“We got stuff we needa discuss,” Daryl says, looking at Rick.

If he wasn’t blushing a bit as he speaks, Rick would just assume he means the plan and everything it entails. The bringing Beta down thing. But there’s a red tint across Daryl’s cheekbones that goes all the way to the tips of his ears peeking out between the long tresses of his hair, and Rick may be dumb sometimes, but even he can take _that_ hint.

Smiling, unable to really hide his excitement and unbothered by the way anticipation probably shows clearly on his face, Rick nods to him and offers a somewhat apologetic smile to the other occupants of the baby bedroom-come--secret-operation-headquarters.

Eric gives him a thumbs-up. Shane rolls his eyes. Aaron and Paul ignore him, mostly, as they both look down at Gracie in her baby nest with twin expressions of awestruck wonderment. The little girl is apparently sucking her big toe as she sleeps. Babies are weird.

“We’ll be in my bedroom if anyone needs us,” Rick announces needlessly.

“Doncha dare need us,” Daryl commands, trying to look threatening in spite of his blush and the slight upwards curve of his lips as he attempts not to smile too obviously.

God, they’re like giddy teenagers. And they don’t even care.

“Remember to use lots of lubrication,” Eric reminds them when they’re leaving the room.

The way Daryl blushes at _that_ is so precious, Rick might finally share Shane’s sentiment: Eric really is the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. As compensation, there will be a chapter a day until the end of the week. 
> 
> Please let me know if you guys want some smut in the next chapter or not. Thanks~


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Daryl do stuff. And things.  
> It's kinda awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pure smut. Almost nothing else happens. Just the smut.  
> Also, fair warning: I'm incredibly bad at writing porn.

Daryl is at his most gorgeous when he’s spread out on top of Rick’s bed, t-shirt pushed up to reveal his toned chest, his jeans unbuttoned, face flushed and lips parted; and Rick can’t stop looking at him, doesn’t think he’ll get tired of it any time soon. He plants a very careful kiss at the edge of the fresh remainder of Daryl's gunshot wound and lets his hands wander up and down Daryl’s sides, then brushes one against a dark nipple which makes Daryl inhale loudly and actually buck into the touch. He’s shy about telling Rick what he likes, what he wants, so Rick takes all his reactions as cue. This, it’s promising, the quickening of Daryl’s breath and the way he tries to be subtle even as he tries to arch so that his chest pushes forward, into the caress.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Rick demands softly, removing his hand, tickling Daryl’s abs lightly just to tease him into maybe voicing his desires.

Daryl shakes his head, whispers, “Just want you,” and it’s not helpful when Rick wants specifics, wants to know exactly what to do to drive his boyfriend mad with pleasure.

So he explores, with his hands and his mouth. He flicks his thumb over the hard nub he brushed over earlier and then pinches it between thumb and forefinger, and it earns him a gasp that turns into a drawn-out moan when Rick closes his mouth around the other nipple. Sucking on it, licking it and then nipping gently, Rick drinks in the sweet sounds Daryl is making no effort to contain. He’s so lovely when he responds to touch by being so wonderfully vocal, and Rick doesn’t even mind if the others hear.

“So good for me, love,” he whispers against Daryl’s skin and moves up to capture the man’s lips in a filthy, hungry kiss. Daryl kisses back just as eagerly, pushing his tongue against Rick’s and groaning softly into his mouth.

Then Rick backs away for a moment and asks, “How’re we gonna do this?...”

Daryl frowns like he’s confused before a pretty blush blooms across his cheeks. “... ain’t never done it before,” he mutters, “dun wanna hurt ya-”

“Mmm,” Rick hums and kisses his jaw. “Never done this either. But I kinda… wanna feel you inside me,” he says and he’s surprised he even managed to get it out in the open. He’s thought about this after that awkward conversation with Eric, he’s considered the options and decided that he isn’t a prude and wants to try it this way. He watched some porn and the guys who took it seemed to enjoy themselves, and anyway, he wants to make it good for Daryl, as good as it can be, and. Eric hinted that not all men like it this way, so he doesn’t want to take that risk for Daryl’s first time. Rick's definitely not going to be one of those men who aren't into that. He’s going to like it, and he's sure it's going to be good for him even if he wouldn’t normally be into it because it’s Daryl, but if Daryl doesn’t feel the same way about doing it with Rick-

“Fuck,” Daryl swears on a loud exhale and squeezes his eyes shut. “Yea, okay. D’you gotta, uh, y’know. Stuff?”

“Drawer,” Rick supplies and watches as Daryl reaches out to the bedside table. The man finds the bottle easily and looks at it with squinty eyes. It’s strawberry-flavored, apparently, and Rick didn’t actually buy it himself. It was a gift. From Eric. A very thoughtful and a very mortifying gift.

“Gonna… take my time, a’ight?” Daryl asks in an uncertain voice that’s barely above a whisper.

“No need to rush it,” Rick agrees and just has to kiss him softly again. “We’re gonna do what feels natural, okay? We… we don’t even have to do _that_ if you don’t wanna…”

“God, I do,” Daryl groans and, in a swift movement, switches their positions so that now Rick’s the one pressed against the mattress and Daryl straddles him, hands already wandering even before Rick’s back touches the surface of the sheets. Daryl removes Rick’s t-shirt expertly and runs his fingers through Rick’s chest hair which he seems immediately fascinated with. He then leans in and rubs the coarse hairs on Rick’s jaw with his nose before whispering:  
“Yer gonna grow it back, yea?”

Rick nods and licks his lips. “Gonna keep it groomed though,” he says.

Daryl scoffs. “No need,” he murmurs, “liked it all wild like. Love ya all hairy...”

He starts to kiss down Rick’s jaw and neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin with his teeth; his large hands tease soft, fleeting caresses down Rick’s chest and abdomen. He pauses when he reaches the waistband of Rick’s jeans, then works his nimble fingers to open the button and pull down the zipper.

It’s a complete coincidence that today is the day Rick hasn’t got any underwear on - he’s all out of clean boxers and the laundry machine is not very cooperative - but well, it’s a happy coincidence, too, and nobody’s going to protest. Certainly not Daryl who looks down at Rick in astounded wonderment and licks his lips when Rick’s freed erection presses against the palm of his hand. He wraps his fingers around the shaft and strokes slowly, eyes locked in Rick’s face as Rick makes a rather embarrassing sound of pleasure and jerks his hips into the loose grip of Daryl’s hand.

“Wanna taste ya,” Daryl whispers, licking his lips again. He does that a lot and Rick thinks he might lose his mind because it’s so incredibly erotic, and the man doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it.

“I’m yours, sweetheart,” Rick promises, “you can do whatever you like.”

So Daryl does. He kisses Rick fiercely, all demanding and powerful all of a sudden, and it sends a spike of arousal down to Rick’s groin to witness his boyfriend like this. Daryl tugs his jeans off of him without even breaking the kiss and throws them somewhere, then pushes his still clothed leg between Rick’s naked thighs and rubs it against Rick’s cock and balls, careful not to hurt him but also to provide the much needed friction. It’s such a thrill to be completely naked when Daryl is still fully dressed if rumpled, and Rick moans wantonly into the man’s mouth. Daryl greedily swallows the moan, counters it with a low rumbling groan of his own, and he bites Rick’s lower lip before sucking on it as though in apology. One of Daryl’s hands explores the plains of Rick’s chest, brushing through the hair there again and again, while the other gathers both of Rick’s wrists and pins them above Rick’s head on the pillow.

“Keep ‘em there,” he commands and Rick nods, unable to do anything but comply when Daryl uses _that_ tone with him. God, it’s sexy. Rick had no idea his timid, shy boyfriend was even capable of such an attitude in the bedroom, but he’s definitely not going to complain.

Daryl shifts and picks up the bottle of lube, and he moves to settle down between Rick’s spread thighs. He then looks at him, licks his lips - this has to be deliberate, there’s no way it isn’t - and leans in to take Rick’s cock in his mouth without preamble. Rick’s hips buck into the wet heat on their own accord and Daryl chokes; he backs away, but not enough to let Rick’s cock slip out of his mouth. He sucks lightly on the tip as he puts his hands on Rick’s hips to hold them down.

“Mmm, you’re doing so good,” Rick says, and then whimpers because Daryl does something wicked with his tongue that makes Rick’s toes curl and his hands squeeze the pillow so hard he can feel the fabric of the case break.

Then Daryl’s mouth is all around him again, and he bobs his head slowly up and down as he takes Rick’s cock as far as he is able; and Rick’s mind goes blank with pleasure as he feels the vibration of Daryl humming around his mouthful, and God, for someone inexperienced, the man is really damn good at this.

Lost in his pleasure, Rick almost doesn’t hear the sound of the bottle lid popping open; but he does, and it makes him tense up just a bit. He knows, reasonably, that Daryl’s not going to hurt him, that this will probably prove at least somewhat pleasant. Still. He’s never done this before, and it’s a bit scary, and-

“Ah,” he moans and then bites his lower lip to cut off further embarrassing noises when Daryl’s slick hand slides against his balls. It’s useless, though, he can’t stop himself from all but whimpering again and again, because Daryl seems to know exactly how to touch him there to make it mind-numbingly good. It’s so good, so fucking good, and then Daryl let’s his hand slip even lower, and his index finger rubs against the rim around Rick’s opening, and it’s so strange to be touched there, but not bad-strange, just strange, and-

He hisses when the blunt fingertip breaches him. Daryl doesn’t push it, just lets it rest there as he looks up from between Rick’s legs, trying to gauge whether Rick’s reaction means he should retreat or not.

“Gimme a second,” Rick grunts, and he forces himself to relax.

 _This is Daryl_ , he tells himself. _He’s not going to hurt me. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s going to feel so good inside me. He’s going to be so good to me._

“Tell me if ya want me to stop,” Daryl whispers into his thigh and Rick shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “don’t stop. Just… go slow. It’s… I’ve never…”

“Won’t ever hurt ya,” Daryl promises in a low, rumbling murmur which feels like a caress to Rick’s ears. He’s so soothing as he kisses the skin along Rick’s inner thigh, as he whispers soft words of encouragement and doesn’t do anything to cause Rick any more discomfort than he already has. It’s the sweetest thing, and Rick feels absolutely damn ungrateful, so he wills himself to get over it and just let Daryl do this.

“Go on,” he says, and he hates how weak he sounds. This is a damn inconvenient time to be having the Big Gay Crisis, Part Two.

“Stop me if ‘s bad,” Daryl tells him and pushes the slick finger in up to the second knuckle.

And it’s not bad, not exactly. It’s so easily the strangest sensation Rick’s ever felt, of being filled there, of something going inside of him, but it’s not painful, it doesn’t burn or hurt in any other way. He feels stretched, a little, but the walls he has down there accommodate Daryl’s finger easily and without offering much resistance at all. Daryl seems pleased with that; he pulls the finger out then slowly pushes it back in, and again, and again, each time letting it slide a little further until it’s all the way inside of Rick.

“Okay?” Daryl asks breathlessly.

Rick has to think about the answer, and he nods, and says, “Yes,” and he sounds breathless too, and even though his cock flagged at the initial contact, it quickly fills to return to its proudly erect state. Daryl notices and smiles, a real, full smile that Rick can’t ever get tired of, and he takes Rick’s cock into his mouth again as he continues the in-out motion with his finger in Rick’s hole.

“God,” Rick moans, and Daryl chuckles with his mouth still around his dick, and it’s crazy how he can be so unsure one moment and then become so playful the next, and Rick can’t really think, can’t really wonder about it, and-

The second finger is even weirder, but the stretch isn’t as uncomfortable as Rick expected it to be. There’s still no pain, maybe because Daryl’s really generous with the lube, or maybe Rick’s just built the right way to enjoy it, or. He doesn’t know, but it’s not terrible, it’s not what he feared. Daryl pushes his fingers deep inside him and sort of crooks them, and Rick suddenly arches off the bed, hips bucking wildly, as an electric jolt of almost unbearable pleasure explodes from the spot Daryl’s fingertips press into.

“Mmm, found it,” Daryl says in a self-satisfied tone of voice, and Rick looks down at him in disbelief, vision somewhat hazy.

“What?” He asks, and he finds that he doesn’t know if he wants that spot to be touched again or to be left alone. He didn’t even know that pleasure itself could be painful. He’s shaking, his hips are undulating of their own accord and he still keeps his arms above his head like Daryl told him to, but his fingers twitch and he _needs_ Daryl to hold him, he needs-

And Daryl must really be reading his mind because he moves up to lie on his side next to Rick, careful not to dislodge his fingers from where they have stilled inside of Rick’s body, and he says,

“Touch me,” and Rick wastes no time to wrap his arms around Daryl’s broad shoulders and pull him on top of himself.

“If ‘s too much,” Daryl says into his hair, then kisses the top of his head like he wants to offer reassurance, and Rick’s pretty sure Daryl is an angel, his wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous angel who’s too patient with him even though he must’ve wanted this for a long time, must’ve thought about fucking Rick, must’ve imagined it so many times. And Rick is such a disappointment, too scared and too weirded out and probably not very attractive at all right now as he struggles to breathe, holding onto Daryl for dear life.

“I got ya, Rick. Not gonna hurt ya,” Daryl promises again and he moves his hand. Rick whimpers when the fingers slip out of him, and he catches Daryl’s wrist out of pure instinct.

“You don’t have to stop,” he mutters. “If you want to… You can, umm. Fuck me,” he offers, and he bites his lip because he’s not sure anymore if it’s going to feel good at all. God, that spot Daryl touched within him, it’s like Rick’s whole body caught fire and he’s pretty sure there are still tears in his eyes.

“Won’t,” Daryl says, and shakes his head. “Yer not into that, ‘s fine. Just… May I kiss ya?”

Rick nods and doesn’t wait for Daryl to kiss him, he kisses Daryl first, and it’s as good as before, better even, the man’s taste mixed with Rick’s own. It’s addictive, kissing Daryl, it’s a damn powerful drug and Rick needs it, more than he’s ever needed anything.

How he wishes he could give Daryl everything the man desires! When their mouths are connected and their lips move against each other, it’s almost impossible to imagine that anything with the two of them could not feel incredible, and Rick hesitates because maybe he should let Daryl try again. But what if it doesn’t work for him again? It would likely crush Daryl, make him think he’s doing it wrong when he’s not doing anything wrong at all, it’s just Rick is faulty and.

Why can’t he just lie back and enjoy it?

“Y’know… Ya could, ummm. Do me?” Daryl suggests after they break apart for breath. He’s not looking at Rick and he’s blushing, and he bites his lower lip under Rick’s questioning gaze.

Rick’s arousal returns immediately. “You’d like that?” He asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. He doesn’t know if it’s really a good idea because what if Daryl hates it, what if he’s just not into it too? But they need to try different things to find out what they like, and Eric said it’s okay if neither of them’s into anal sex because many couples just don’t do that.

“Been wantin’,” Daryl says and trails off. He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales loudly, then looks directly at Rick. “Been wantin’ ya to fuck me since I first fuckin’ saw ya,” he confesses and his pretty blush darkens.

Rick kisses him again, and once more after that, and he rolls them over so that Daryl is on his back like before. He breaks the kiss only to strip Daryl of his t-shirt and he pinches the man’s nipples to make him moan. But he doesn’t linger on Daryl’s chest, not this time, he’s got no more patience left for slow seduction. Instead, he quickly gets rid of Daryl’s jeans and boxers, and he groans in satisfaction when their naked bodies come into contact. He’s never had Daryl naked under him before. The first time they did anything, the man’s shirt stayed in place, but right now, Daryl doesn’t even look the least bit self-conscious as he spreads his legs for Rick and submissively places his arms above his head.

Rick reaches for a small pillow which he places under Daryl’s hips to lift them. Groaning softly, Daryl lets himself be manhandled until he’s in Rick’s desired position, still on his back, legs bent and spread wide, hips higher so that his cock, balls and his ass are all on display. He’s absolutely delicious like this and Rick has the biggest urge to taste him, to take him into his mouth and let him fuck his mouth, because that’s apparently the part of Rick’s body that really enjoys the feeling of a cock inside it. But he doesn’t do any of that because it’s not what Daryl wants right now. Daryl wants Rick’s cock inside him, and _fuck_ , just the idea of that makes Rick’s blood boil.

Rick briefly kisses Daryl on the mouth again before he trails little kisses down the man’s neck and shoulders while he blindly pats around the bed for the bottle of lube. He finds it and squirts a generous amount on his hand, then warms it between his fingers.

“I’m gonna put a finger in you,” he warns and Daryl nods. He looks like he can’t wait and Rick tries not to feel guilty - he should’ve reacted to Daryl doing this to him like that! - so he gently presses his hand between the globes of Daryl’s cheeks and brushes the index finger against the man’s entrance. It makes Daryl gasp and Rick spends a few moments massaging around the tight ring of muscle before he slowly pushes the finger past it, inside. Daryl doesn’t tense up, not like Rick did, he lets out a soft noise that sounds an awful lot like a moan and he looks at Rick through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Ain’t need t’be careful,” he mutters, “I done tried this, ummm, with my fingers.”

The image of Daryl doing this to himself is incredibly erotic when it pops up in Rick’s mind. He groans and slides his finger deeper inside Daryl, going slow but steady, and he doesn’t wait long before he tries to add a second finger. They slide in easily and Daryl lets out a stream of curses as Rick pulls the fingers out and then pushes them back in, and then repeats the motion, and does it again, and again, more bold, firmer each time.

“God, Rick,” Daryl groans, and he pulls Rick in to kiss him. Rick tries to reciprocate but he can’t concentrate on kissing Daryl because he’s focused on something else: that spot within Daryl, the one that’ll make him feel like _that_ , he needs to find it, he needs to see if Daryl hates it or loves it, so he attempts to crook his fingers just like Daryl did before, and-

Suddenly, he must’ve found it because Daryl keens and then slaps a hand against his mouth to muffle all sound as he grinds down on Rick’s hand and _comes_ , cock spilling the pearlescent liquid all over his stomach and chest without Rick even touching it.

“Guess we can safely assume you liked that,” Rick murmurs with, surprised and turned on both because _holy shit_ , Daryl just came untouched just from Rick rubbing that spot inside of him, and that’s so fucking hot.

“Sorry,” Daryl mutters, embarrassed, and turns his head, looking away from Rick in shame and disappointment when Rick’s fingers are no longer in him and he tries to compose himself, and it’s heartbreaking.

“Don’t be sorry, baby, there’s no need to apologize,” Rick assures him. “God, you were so damn gorgeous.”

“Wanted to cum with yer cock in me,” Daryl says in a small voice.   
Rick kisses him, pouring all of his affection for the man into this kiss before he backs away and offers, “I could still fuck you,” and he watches Daryl’s eyes widen and become hopeful.

“Oh, you’d like that? Tell me,” he demands.

Daryl steals a quick glance at him and nods, but Rick smirks mischievously and says, “No, you have to tell me what you want. With words, sweetheart.”

“Get inside me, please, please,” Daryl begs and Rick rewards him with a kiss.

“Very good, love,” he says, and grabs the lube again. His hands are shaking - is he really anticipating it so much? God, yes, he is - but he manages to get his cock all wet and slick, and he strokes it a few times before he gets into position between Daryl’s spread thighs. He holds his cock in place with a firm hand and presses just the tip against the tight little hole that stretches to let him in easily.

Daryl moans breathlessly and his spent cock twitches, and he moves his legs to wrap them around Rick’s hips. The motion makes Rick inch forward, burying himself in the incredible heat of Daryl’s, and he can’t help the deep noise that escapes him.

“God, baby, you feel so good,” he whispers and kisses the corner of Daryl’s lips, his jaw, the slightly ticklish spot right under his ear; and Daryl takes shallow, gasping breaths, eyes closed and hands buried in Rick’s hair.

“Move,” he demands or pleads or begs, it’s difficult to tell from just the tone, but Rick obeys regardless and slides almost all the way out before pushing back in. He does it again, and again, and each time Daryl whimpers and jerks his hips to meet Rick’s thrusts, and they establish a rhythm which is torturously slow and so damn good, and Rick can see how Daryl loves this, how he loves being filled, how he loves being fucked, and it drives him mad with want; so he lets himself go and his thrusts become faster, harder, and he must finally hit that spot inside of Daryl because the man cries out something incoherent, hands tightening in Rick’s hair, and then it happens again, on every thrust. Daryl’s cries become an unending litany of _Rick, please,_ and he sounds so lovely, so wrecked.

It doesn’t take much longer; one particularly deep thrust has Daryl tightening around him in pure bliss, and it’s enough to push Rick over the edge fast, and he spills inside of Daryl with a drawn-out moan he tries to muffle against Daryl’s shoulder. Spent, he falls on top of his boyfriend who gathers him in his arms and kisses the top of his head, and he’s talking softly, and Rick has to concentrate to hear what he’s saying.

“Thank you, yer so good to me, Rick, ‘twas so good, thank you, I love you, I-”

“Should’ve been able to do it for you, though,” Rick says with a sigh, apologetic and sad at having disappointed Daryl like that, and after Daryl let him do this.

“Naw,” Daryl tells him, “‘s fine. Rick. It don’t matter to me. Ya like what ya like, an’ turns out, we _both_ like ya fuckin’ me, so…”

Rick has to kiss him for that, and Daryl lazily kisses back. Still, Rick doesn’t feel like this conversation should be over like this.

“We should try it again, next time,” he suggests, “I mean, maybe, if you want to. I should, ummm. Practice. If I do it more then it won’t be so weird anymore and-”

“Rick,” Daryl interrupts him, shaking his head in clear exasperation. “It don’t have to happen. ‘m gonna be happy with anything we do together. Hell, if ya said yer not into sex anymore, ever, ‘s fine too. Just… Just want ya to be with me ‘s long as it takes afore yer tired of me.”

Rick wraps his arms around Daryl and touches his forehead against the other man’s. Like this, they’re as close as possible, their bodies still joined, pressed together, tangled so as to merge into one. Rick can’t imagine getting tired of this man. He can’t imagine feeling anything but deep love for him, love and gratitude and admiration. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Daryl. He wants Daryl to want the same.

“Marry me,” he proposes, and it’s not what he was aiming to say, but he realizes it’s what he meant anyway. “When all of this is over. I’ll buy a ring and take you out to dinner after Beta’s dealt with, and. I’m gonna ask, and make it all official and nice-”

“No need for all that,” Daryl says. He bites his lower lip, looks away for a moment, shy and beautiful and so absolutely lovely. “Gonna marry ya, if ya still want it when it’s over. Ya don’ hafta buy rings or stuff.”

“Oh, you’re getting a ring, no getting out of that,” Rick promises him. He’s pretty sure there’s a giant beaming smile on his face.

Daryl is smiling too, and it’s lovely, he’s gorgeous, he’s Rick’s entire world along with the children, Michi, Shane and Cat. He’s why he’s doing this, why he’s at war. He’s Rick’s, and in that moment, the beautiful early evening of the third of July, wrapped in his boyfriend’s arms and buried inside of him, Rick is the happiest he has ever been in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was debating with myself about how to do this. Generally speaking, I'm all in favor of versatile Rickyl. Heck, with most of my ships (with one notable exception) I tend to go with versatile partners because it seems more natural than firmly established roles. But in this particular fic, turns out Rick's not exactly into being a bottom. Maybe he'll warm up to it later? Who knows. Not me. I no longer know what I'm doing with this story, the last five chapters all happened differently from my initial plans. Oh well.
> 
> But next chapter, THE chapter, that's going entirely as planned. So stay tuned!


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the Fourth of July.

Even though Rick would be perfectly happy to spend the entire night in Daryl's arms, eventually they have to face the music. They still try to cheat by taking a shower together, which makes it a lot longer than a shower really should be. For the second time, Rick has a naked man in the shower with him and it's the exact same man, but this time it's different: Daryl isn't there unwillingly, isn't hurt or trying to fight Rick's hands touching him. Isn't trying to hide his body anymore.

"Daddy ain't been much of a parent t'me an' my brother," he says softly when Rick traces one of the long scars curling from the man's back to just above his hip. "Liked his booze more'n he liked us, I reckon. An' when 's all outta booze, it gots real bad. He woulda grabs his belt, makes sure 's the buckle at the bottom, an' he woulda hit blind. More we cries out, more we getting, an' Merle learned not t'fight but me? Never coulda learn. When Merle left, daddy goes an' drinks even more, an's not just his belt anymore. Broken bottles worked, an' cables, anything he could throw at me. Ain't fought back anymore, not after my arm gots broke twice, but it didn't matter. An' then he went an' died, an's got me homeless for all my troubles."

Rick figured Daryl's story was something like that from the moment he first saw how the man flinched away from touch. He's seen enough abused children and adults who used to be abused children in the past to be able to recognize the signs. So he can't say he's surprised, but actually hearing the details is a different sort of horrifying. It's difficult to imagine a childhood so terrible as Daryl's, and it’s even more difficult to not admire him leaving it all mostly behind him. Rick thinks about how careful Daryl’s always been with Judith, how patient he’s been with Carl, how he’s never once gotten annoyed with Rick’s kids. In spite of what he went through from his own flesh and blood, he doesn’t have an ounce of violence in him that could be directed against children.

He’s going to make a wonderful father. He already is, in fact. 

“You’re so amazing,” Rick informs him, kissing Daryl’s shoulder and tasting soap on it. He grimaces and Daryl chuckles.

“Stop embarrassin’ me, Grimes,” he protests, “was already plenty embarrassed today.”

“You were perfect, no reason to be embarrassed,” Rick assures him. “You don’t know how gorgeous you are in my bed. I mean, you’re always gorgeous, but under me, spread out in my bed, calling my name...”

Daryl groans. “Sweet talkin’ ain’t get ya nowhere,” he grumbles, “ain’t gettin’ it up no more tonight.”

“Oh really?” Rick teases, looking down between Daryl’s legs and brushing his fingers against Daryl’s abs where the thin, dark trail of hair begins. “Is that a challenge, sweetheart?”

“Ain’t,” Daryl protests and slaps his hand away. “‘s what yer gettin’ for romancin’ an older guy. Sex ain’t gonna be three times a day. Best get used to it.”

Rick laughs and pats Daryl’s hip encouragingly. “I’m pretty sure we could work on your recovery time, love. Worst case scenario, there are meds for that.”

“Ain’t goin’ to no doctor, so doncha even think ‘bout it,” Daryl says, completely deadpan, but he doesn’t move away when Rick squeezes some shampoo from the bottle and begins to rub it into his hair. 

They finish washing each other and Rick thinks it’s amazing to be able to spend time with Daryl naked in a completely non-sexual manner. Even though they both end up semi-hard, in spite of Daryl’s conviction that it wouldn’t happen, they don’t do anything about it. They don’t even pay any attention to their cocks. They could, but choose not to, and instead they dry off and go back to Rick’s bedroom to get dressed.

Daryl very deliberately chooses to wear one of Rick’s shirts. It almost fits somewhat snugly across the chest, but his arms won’t fit into the sleeves. Undeterred, Daryl rips the sleeves out without much effort - fuck, those powerful arms of his are incredible - and he gets dressed with a satisfied hum. He notices the angel wing vest folded neatly on the chair and picks it up, then lifts a questioning eyebrow at Rick when he sees the tiny scorch marks on the front.   
“I was angry with you,” Rick explains sheepishly.

“Yer such a girl, Grimes,” Daryl tells him, rolling his eyes as he puts on the vest. 

Rick dresses in a clean pair of jeans - still no underwear because he still hasn’t done laundry, which is why Daryl’s also not wearing any since Rick doesn’t have a pair he could lend him - and a t-shirt Michonne bought him as a joke. It’s pale blue and says  _ DILF _ in big bold letters. Rick isn’t completely sure what it means, but he has an idea. 

They rejoin the guys in Judith’s bedroom and it immediately becomes obvious that they were heard well enough by everyone present. Shane won’t look up from the laptop and even the tip of his nose is red from the blush on his face. Aaron tries to casually greet them back, but he has to clear his throat and starts coughing instead. Eric beams at Daryl, then at Rick, and it’s almost scary; Rick can hardly believe that this is the guy who spluttered and blushed at the mention of prostate but a few days prior. 

Paul is suspiciously absent. Rick asks about it.

Aaron sighs. “Well, unlike some people, he’s still on active duty. Can’t be found hanging around you if he wants to draw out the mole.”

“Still don’t get why we can’t just shoot the guy,” Eric says. “We know who the mole is. We already have proof that he’s working with the Whisperers. Why do we have to draw him out into the open?”

“No shooting people unless we can’t help it,” Rick reaffirms. “We’re officers of the law, not a band of vigilantes.”

“Well actually,” Eric protests, but he shuts up under Rick’s sharp stare. 

Daryl shakes his head. “Y’all shoulda never gotten involved,” he says. “Rick couldn’a helped it ‘cause he’s a fuckin’ suicide watch subscriber, but at least he used to be a cop. Y’all ‘s civilians. Yer not supposed to be dealin’ with this shit.”

“I’m done listening to that,” Aaron snaps. “If Paul’s ready to do this, then so are we. You got a problem with that, deal with it ‘cause it’s happening regardless of your opinions.”

“Paul’s a trained operative,” Daryl reminds him needlessly. “Least take yer daughter somewhere safe. This place’s gonna be a Goddamn hell pit tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan,” Rick pipes in. “They’re just staying the night to help keep watch. In the morning, they’re evacuating like all the other civilians.”

Eric opens his mouth to say something, but Shane shakes his head. “No, no, man, Rick’s right. That Beta dude, he’s a crazy son of a bitch. Wouldn’t put it past him to skin y’all alive and wear a mask of your face to get to Rick.”

They all laugh in morbid amusement at the over-the-top mental image painted by Shane’s words, but honestly, Rick also wouldn’t put it past Beta to do something like that. Mounting people’s heads on pikes throughout the city wasn’t particularly indicative of sanity either and yet Beta did it with heartfelt conviction. That’s why initially he planned to do this all alone. He wanted to avoid putting anyone else at risk for his personal vendetta. Turns out, even Rick Grimes can’t do everything on his own, and maybe it’s better this way. Maybe there’s strength in numbers. After all, the house is much better fortified thanks to Eric’s ideas, Aaron didn’t even need to be asked to supply the vehicles for their potential escape plans, Paul’s resourceful within the Bureau, Shane’s a great shot and an even better police officer, and Daryl’s got a Goddamn crossbow he claims never to miss with. 

With the help of all these wonderful people, Rick’s plan just doesn’t seem like such a suicide mission anymore. 

They take turns keeping an eye on the monitoring at night, but to be honest, nobody sleeps. Camping out on the floor of Judith’s bedroom, nested comfortably in blankets and pillows gathered from downstairs and from Carl’s room, the five men talk about anything that comes up. 

“We would’ve been divorced by now if we didn’t meet Paul,” Eric says with his head resting comfortably on Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron is burrowed in a blanket with his side against the bed Gracie is still asleep in. Or maybe she was awake at some point and fell asleep again. Rick wouldn’t know.

“Aren’t the two of you like, an ideal couple?” Shane asks, frowning.

Both Aaron and Eric chuckle at that. 

“Ummm, nope,” Aaron admits with a fond smile. “We’re actually not very much alike, you know? Eric doesn’t care about bikes at all, loves parties and going out, and would drag me to every Pride event within a hundred mile radius if I let him.”

Eric counters: “Meanwhile, Aaron would rather stay at home or at the garage, sometimes you can’t get him to talk about  _ anything _ that doesn’t have at least a six hundred CC engine, and he’s only technically not closeted. He’s certainly not out and proud.”

“Well, I  _ am  _ proud,” Aaron protests. “I’m proud of the family we’ve built together, I’m proud of having a badass husband. Just… I don’t want to go around flaunting it. Nothing good comes out of exhibiting such things in front of people’s faces.”

“Aaron’s parents haven’t accepted him,” Eric explains. 

“Screw them,” Aaron mutters. “It’s not like they accepted any of my other choices. They never forgave me for not applying to med school or something equally  _ prestigious _ .”

Shane sighs. “I know how that feels, brother. Ol’ dad still keeps trying to get me to go back to the countryside, wants to make a farmer outta me.”

“Yeah, well. Apparently his son being both gay  _ and  _ a mechanic was too much for my old man,” Aaron says with a shrug. “Wrote me out of his will. Punched me in the face last time he saw me. Haven’t tried to contact my parents after that.”

“Good riddance,” Daryl mutters. “Any parent done hit their kid ain’t deservin’ to have ‘em kid in their life. Seriously, screw yer old man.”

Aaron laughs. “I’d drink to that,” he admits.

“So how’d Jesus save your marriage?” Rick asks, curious about how that might work. 

Eric chuckles. “You make it sound like some Christian intervention,” he jokes. “But, really… We met Paul at the lowest point of our marriage. We’d just moved to the new, bigger house, and we started talking about maybe adopting a child. And, thing is, we noticed that was the  _ only _ thing we ever talked about. Like we had nothing else in common. Just the house and the child. I was so incredibly bored of my life, you know? I didn’t work, I actually never had to work, let’s just say coming from old money has its advantages… But because of that, being alone every day in the new big house felt even more stifling. And Aaron, well, he’s the kind of man to try to work out his problems by  _ not  _ working them out.”

“I used to spend up to sixteen hours a day at the garage,” Aaron says guiltily. “Because going home would mean facing Eric, and problem was, we just had nothing to say to each other anymore. So it was always down to those two recurring topics, house and baby, again and again until I was slowly starting to hate both.”

“We never went out on dates anymore,” Eric adds. “We didn’t know how to flirt with each other. Ummm… We completely stopped having sex, too.”

“Eric’s got lower libido than me, so we never had too much sex either way,” Aaron confesses, and even in the darkness of the room it’s easy to tell he’s blushing.

“I felt guilty about that a lot,” Eric mutters, “because even those times I actually wanted sex, I didn’t want... you know. Penetration. It’s just too painful for me. It almost worked the other way around, but Aaron, he’s not. Ummm. Not very…” He shakes his head. 

“I’m built a little weird inside,” Aaron supplies. “Prostate’s deeper than it is for most men and placement’s off, and you’d probably be able to find it with fingers and patience, but not so much with a dick.”

Shane coughs, surprised at the bluntness, and then tries to mask his discomfort by staring very intently at the monitoring. Rick’s proud of him. For an ignorant homophobe, his best friend has a lot of patience for gay sex talk. 

“Yeah. So, you understand, we started thinking maybe we weren’t even compatible in the first place,” Eric says. Aaron kisses his temple, and Rick can’t quite reconcile the thought of a breaking marriage with these two men who are clearly still very much in love with each other.

“We went to a marriage counselor,” Eric goes on. “She wasn’t very good, but she gave us an idea: what if we tried to pretend we were strangers? That way, we could rediscover the things about each other that first made us fall in love.”

“We took the idea and went with it, but online,” Aaron says. “We joined a gay dating site. At first, it didn’t work at all because we seriously didn’t know how to flirt anymore, so Eric suggested we talk to other guys and try to pick up some clues.”

“And we both chatted up the same guy, turned out, because apparently we had one more thing in common: our taste in men,” Eric adds, giggling. “And, would you know it, that was just the thing our marriage needed. The guy was an outrageous flirt with some of the worst pick-up lines, but he opened up about himself pretty quickly. Talked motorbikes with Aaron and knew all about the latest Harley-Davidson customs. With me, he was more into personal stuff. Told me all about that dude at work he was absolutely in love with, but who wouldn’t even give him the time of day,” he looks at Daryl with a smirk.

Daryl blinks. “Naw,” he says, “ain’t true. He ain’t never said anythin’.”

“You were apparently the most oblivious guy in the world,” Aaron informs him, rolling his eyes, “and also you were a creep obsessed with some cop from a training video.” 

It’s Daryl’s turn to blush this time, but still, bravely, he clarifies, “Saw him afore the video. Gave me a speedin’ ticket first.”

Rick frowns. “I… don’t remember that.”

“‘twas long ago,” Daryl mutters, embarrassed. 

“Wasn’t that when you covered for that guy from traffic patrol because you lost the card game?” Shane supplies, poking Rick in the arm. “You told me later you caught some punk on a motorbike going almost two hundred per hour.”

Rick blinks and looks at Daryl incredulously. “That was you?”

Defensive, Daryl explains: “Was late for work.”

“I changed my mind. Carl’s not riding with you, ever,” Rick decides.

Daryl kisses him, but Rick doesn’t let it soften his resolve. Two hundred per hour! Yeah, it was on the interstate, and the road was empty, and the rider stopped his bike effortlessly - Rick remembers being impressed and mildly horrified - but still. That sort of speed is acceptable for motorcross, not for a street. There have to be consequences.

“So you guys talked to that Jesus dude, he started opening up to you, but how’s that work for your marriage?” Shane asks, shooting Rick and Daryl a vicious glare because  _ no excessive PDA in front of me _ isn’t only a rule for Carl.

Eric hums thoughtfully. “Oh. Well, we sort of discussed him, and we decided maybe we should take it a step further. Because we were both so frustrated with each other, we thought maybe we could work out that frustration with the other guy. It was… Well, the assumption was, we would give ourselves a one-time free pass to cheat on each other, as long as it was with this specific man we both liked talking to so much.”

“Eric met up with him first,” Aaron says, “and let me tell you, I’ve never been so jealous in my life. I spent the whole night wondering  _ what if he leaves me _ ,  _ what if that guy’s better for him, what if- _ ”

“We didn’t have sex, by the way,” Eric supplies, “we rented a car and went to see David Bowie in Atlanta. Aaron doesn’t like Bowie, prefers heavy metal, but Paul? He drove for seven hours and he bought tickets at a three hundred percent markup, and believe me, I was head over heels for him before we even entered the venue.”

“My date with Paul was less eventful in that we didn’t cross any state lines,” Aaron adds. “We met in a restaurant in DC, and I’m ashamed to admit, we uh. We didn’t even wait for our food to arrive. We found the nearest hotel and we banged like horny teenagers.”

“They still do,” Eric says fondly. 

“Shut up,” Aaron laughs. “But, uh, yeah. We do.” 

Shane groans and mutters something along the lines of  _ too much information _ ,  _ fuck _ . Rick pats him on the shoulder in reassurance and Daryl scowls before wrapping Rick in his arms, arms and legs tangling with Rick’s like a giant four-limbed octopus. He buries his face in the crook or Rick’s neck and sighs contentedly. 

“That’s so cute,” Eric announces.

“That’s so gay,” Shane corrects him, and Eric laughs. 

“You’ve officially got more gay friends than straight,” Rick says, smirking as he kisses the top of Daryl’s head. 

Shane rolls his eyes. “Shut up, you’re not gay. And Carol’s not gay, that’s two. Chonnie is bi, too, isn’t she? So three. Three friends who aren’t gay, and two who are.”

“Two?” Aaron asks.

“Yep. You and Eric,” Shane confirms. “Hell knows what Dixon is, but he sure as fuck ain’t my friend. And your fed boy toy better keep his distance or I’ll punch him in the teeth, is all.”

The rest of the night passes in a lighthearted mood, bickering and teasing, and before they know it, it’s the dawn of the fourth of July. Daryl fell asleep at some point, wrapped snugly against Rick, but he wakes up as soon as the first rays of sunlight fall into the bedroom. He looks at the clock in his phone and rubs at his eyes sleepily.

“Why didncha wake me?” He asks, and Rick kisses him on the cheek. 

“You’re cute when you sleep,” he says warmly. “But since you’re awake now, why don’t you take the truck and drive our guests home? You can find Jesus and see if he needs help with his part, too, before you come back here.”

“Aight,” Daryl agrees, which must be because he’s barely awake. Rick didn’t expect him to want to leave for even a second, but he’s not going to complain. There’s hardly any risk of Beta arriving before dark, anyway. 

They part ways. Closing the door when Daryl leaves with Eric, Aaron and Gracie, Rick has a sudden overwhelming feeling of loss. He shakes it off, reminds himself that he’s well prepared, and returns upstairs to turn on the recording of human voices to create the impression that there are people still in the house. They’ve been doing that for the last few days. Rick knows Beta would immediately realize there’s a trap waiting for him if he knew Michonne and the kids were gone, so he’s come up with this simple trick to make sure Beta thinks the whole family’s there. It’s so easy with the audio surveillance the FBI left behind. It’s good enough quality to decipher what the voices are saying, but not good enough to really tell if they’re the voices of the correct people. It’s a weakness of the listening system Paul told Rick about: it’s got lots of trouble picking up the differences between female voices and voices of children. That’s because the system was designed with the assumption that there were more males involved in criminal activities.

It’s stupid, but Rick’s glad for this little bug he can use.

He and Shane go about their day. Rick goes down to the garden and waters the plants, then prepares everything like he was really planning a big family barbecue. He retrieves the meat from the freezer in the garage and finds the giant, heavy grill on wheels in the basement. Shane helps him with that one because it weighs easily as much as the both of them together. Then Rick washes it, cleans up the picnic table, brings out some chairs from the house and returns inside to pretend he’s seasoning the food in the kitchen.

Daryl texts him that he’s going to help Paul for a few hours but he’ll be home before dark; Rick is incredibly happy to see him refer to the house as  _ home _ , and he makes sure to pet the pink rider magnet on the fridge affectionately. He decides when it’s all over, Eric, Aaron, Paul and Gracie should all get their own magnets, too. Willing or not, they’re becoming part of the family as well, so it’s only right that they’re included with everyone. 

He wonders if his neighbors are going to have fun at the Fourth of July celebrations in DC. They’d better. Fortunately, nobody needed much convincing to go, and they didn’t have to be told how it’s for their own safety.

“You’re making it smell so good, I’m gonna eat it raw,” Shane announces, plopping down at the stool by the counter. “Aren’t you making too much? Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

What he means is, there’s not a real party so Rick shouldn’t be preparing food for real at all. He’s not wrong, but to be honest, Rick needs to have something to do with his hands. Mixing up some marinade for the meat isn’t especially engaging a task, but it’s better than sitting there doing nothing and waiting for the inevitable to come.

“It won’t be wasted,” Rick assures him and hopes he’s right. “We’re celebrating tonight. Believe me, we’re all going to be pretty hungry come evening.”

And then it’s almost dark and Rick’s becoming antsy, worried maybe he was wrong, maybe Beta caught on to the plan, maybe, maybe; Daryl doesn’t pick up when he calls, neither does Paul, and he won’t risk calling anyone else in case the Bureau part of the plan failed and his phone is being traced. Shane is in the garden, lighting up the barbecue because Rick’s really bad at it - he’s never managed to do it without burning himself, yet - and Rick runs upstairs real quick to find the spare box of bullets for his gun, and that’s when it all happens.

The roar coming from downstairs is like a Goddamn fucking dragon, the sound deafening in the night at the deserted neighborhood. For a second, Rick wonders if he fell asleep, or when he’s sure he didn’t, if there’s a fucking plane heading towards the house or something, but then he hears Shane screaming from outside, and his scream sounds a lot like  _ Fire! _ , and his mind finally places the somewhat familiar noise:

_ They brought a fucking flamethrower.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exciting details about Eric, Aaron and Paul's relationship and how it started will be covered in a separate series, about to start as soon as I finish Coming Home. 
> 
> Also... flamethrower. This can't be good.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown.

The noise throws him off-balance and Rick doesn’t immediately know what to do. For a moment there, he fancied himself fearless, but the ungodly roar has him terrified, and maybe that’s better because he read somewhere only fools know no fear and he really can’t afford to be a fool right now. Out of all scenarios he considered, the most probable ones didn’t even take hand grenades or any other explosives into account because he thought that would be too flashy and too likely to draw the attention of the police. He wonders now if Beta’s plan to murder Rick Grimes and his family is just as suicidal as Rick’s plan to get rid of the Whisperers once and for all. If so, fuck, he’s doomed; neither of them’s going to survive this new inferno of Beta’s making.

By the time Rick makes his way downstairs, gun in hand at the ready, the living room is full of thick, dark smoke and there are flames blazing from the front entrance side, spreading along the walls. If there’s one downside to a nice suburban house like this, it’s that it’s made of wood and the fireproof impregnation really doesn’t stand much chance against a _fucking flamethrower_. In the darkness of the night outside, the only thing really visible is the fire, so Rick’s lucky to have memorized the exact layout of everything in the house by heart. The halls are already burning and Rick inhales the ash and smoke, and he coughs, trying to stifle the noise against his t-shirt. He can barely see anything through all this Goddamn smoke, and it’s difficult to be stealthy when breathing’s limited, and why the fuck didn’t he expect this? He should’ve, flamethrower is Beta’s style to boot, it’s loud and obnoxious and so fucking impractical due to its heaviness. But for that giant of a man, all of his six-five feet, it’s probably nothing, he probably hoists it around like it weighs nothing, like it’s a fucking children’s toy, and _fuck._

At least Daryl’s not here. Wherever he is, be it in DC to protect the civilians or in a federal prison outsmarted by the mole in the Bureau, he’s definitely safer than here.

Trying to move alongside the wall for cover and avoiding the heat at the same time, Rick heads towards the front entrance even though he can hear Shane calling him from the back yard. If he’s still shouting, means he’s alive, so Rick quickly sends him a text message that he’s fine, don’t come inside, call the damn fire brigade. He sees an incoming call, but he doesn’t pick up, just pockets the phone and moves forward in a crouch. It’s so fucking hot in here, he feels like he’s never going to be cold again, and he briefly thinks he used to think the _heatwave_ was unbearable when it was like some damn sub-polar circle in comparison to this. His skin isn’t even sweating anymore, he thinks it’s cracking from the heat, and it doesn’t even hurt anymore. At least it’s not blistering yet.

It’s hard to hear anything but the roar of the flames and his own pulse. He never knew fire could be so loud.

“Rick Grimes!” Beta bellows from somewhere within the flames.

Rick doesn’t reply, but he silently thanks the man for not being able to shut the hell up. It’s easier to locate him by the sound of his booming voice.

“Rick Grimes, what kind of a host are you? Come greet your guest, Rick Grimes! Or are you afraid? Are you scared of me, Rick Grimes?”

Rick ducks into the bathroom and grabs one of the towels. He turns on the tap and throws the towel into the sink, soaking it in cold water. He wraps it around his head, then, before he heads back into the burning hall. It’s marginally easier to breathe this way, but his eyes still sting and he’s sweating like a pig. No helping it though. He can’t back down now.

God, had he miscalculated, had the madman come earlier when the house was full of people… No, he can’t think about that now.

“Rick Grimes! Come on out, face me like a man!” Beta demands, and for the first time, Rick hears him angry. “Or perhaps you’re a mouse instead? So scared to fight like a man, but you weren’t scared to go behind my back! You destroy my family, Rick Grimes, _I will destroy you and yours!_ ”

Kitchen, he’s in the kitchen. Rick quickly tries to come up with the best course of action; the entrance to the kitchen is wide and doesn’t offer any cover, not unless he can crawl and somehow hide under the dining room table. He can’t be sure of Beta’s position and if the man is alone or if he came with an accomplice. Trying to get outside and snipe him down through one of the windows might be a safer bet, but then again, it might not be possible to slip to the front door unnoticed and it’s hard to see anything through the smoke. No, the outside angle won’t work.

Rick tries to move towards the kitchen entrance, though it proves somewhat difficult because the Goddamn carpet is on fire. He knew he should’ve gotten rid of it when Cat came to live with them, but he was too lazy and now he’s paying for it, God damn it. There’s no other way to the kitchen, though, so he looks around and notices the long mirror on the wall. If he manages to put it on the floor, it may serve as a bridge across the fire for the few seconds Rick needs to cross. He holsters the Colt and reaches for the metal-framed mirror. It’s fucking hot, too, so Rick unwraps the barely damp towel from his head and uses it as a protective layer as he plucks the mirror from the wall and then lays it on the floor. It works perfectly and he runs the few steps across to the dining room where he immediately ducks for cover behind the table - just in time because there’s suddenly a burst of noise and a stream of fire explodes at right where his head was a second ago.

“There you are, Rick Grimes!” Beta bellows gleefully. Rick risks a quick glance above the table and he thinks he can just about make out a shadow by the window, next to the shelf seat on the windowsill Rick made for Judith what seems like a lifetime ago. It’s a good vantage point for him, with view of the entire kitchen and dining room area, and the window is an escape route straight to the street at the front of the house in case everything goes tits up. So he’s not planning to die to accomplish his mission; he’s planning to accomplish it and flee, and possibly work on another plan to break Alpha out of prison so they can go on a fucking murder spree together or whatever else counts as romantic between psychos.

Frustrated, unable to take aim and unable to take a deep breath, Rick ducks back and thinks fast. He’s starting to feel lightheaded and he estimates he’s got maybe a few minutes before he loses consciousness if this goes on. He’s worried about the structural integrity of the house as well, it’s made of wood and it’s got some steel pillars, but they might not hold in the hellish heat and are wont to collapse sooner rather than later. At least there’s no gas in the house, there’s no gas line anywhere in the neighborhood, they’re supposed to be modern like that, solar panels and geothermal energy, fancy shit like that, so at least there’s no immediate risk of explosion, but. It doesn’t matter if the entire second floor falls down on their heads. Rick just can’t draw out this encounter if he wants to survive this, and-

He really, really wants to survive this.

“Come on out, Rick Grimes,” Beta coos in a mock-friendly tone. “Let us talk like real men, with fire and steel. No need for hiding between us! We know what we are. I know you, Rick Grimes, I know the monster you truly are, so come on out and we can settle this!”

Rick shoots blindly and hears the shattering glass; if he hit the window, it was a mistake as it will only stoke the fire; but then again, short term it might clear the air a little and allow him to take a better shot. He looks out from his cover and ducks back down just in time to avoid a burst of flame and hot air as the flamethrower roars like and angry dragon. It’s the closest call yet and Rick feels his heartbeat go frantic and his breathing go shallow as his body goes into a state of panic, something he can’t afford in these conditions. He’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, too, simultaneously too dry and too teary to really see anything, and he’s not sure how much longer he has until his eyeballs achieve a boiling temperature. He should’ve learned more about fires when he had a chance.

He considers trying to retreat, but there’s nowhere he can go. There’s the sound of glass breaking and metal warping from his temporary mirror bridge, and even if the carpet’s burned down, it won’t be possible to run through where it used to be because it was mostly acrylic and its melting temperature probably caused damage to the floorboards, maybe fanning the flames consuming them. The only way he can go is forward.

There’s another noise all of a sudden, the familiar sound of an engine Rick can recognize even distorted in the night: it’s his old truck, and then there’s shooting outside, and sirens. Beta laughs over all of it, booming and pleased and fucking insane, and suddenly he stops and there’s a sound of something heavy falling on the ceramic tiles.

“You!” Beta howls angrily and there’s a sickening crack and a low grunt of pain, and Rick’s entire body freezes for a second before he jumps out from his cover, gripping his gun, and he runs through the flames like a fucking avenging angel to see the most horrifying scene he’s ever witnessed:

Daryl and Beta locked in a sort of wrestling match, Daryl’s right arm twisted at an unnatural angle - God, is that bone showing? - and his left gripping a long-bladed knife buried to the hilt in Beta’s shoulder. Beta’s hand is on Daryl’s neck, wrapped around his throat as he easily holds the man up, and Daryl is struggling and kicking out to no avail.

Rick calls, “Let him go,” and he lifts the gun to aim at Beta’s head.

Beta doesn’t spare him a glance, doesn’t look away from Daryl’s form that seems so lithe in comparison to him, and it’s like he knows he’s lost the war but he still wants to win this last battle and take away something that means _everything_  to Rick. And Rick, he’s not having it, no, Rick sees red and he pulls the trigger, and the first shot misses Beta’s chest and goes too high, grazes his neck, but the second shot hits bull’s eye, and the third, and the fourth, and then Beta’s grip on Daryl slackens and both fall to the floor.

Daryl struggles to get up, unable to properly support himself with one good arm, and Rick helps him up. He doesn’t ask what he’s doing here, he doesn’t berate him for foolishness, there’s no time for that, there’s no time because the fire’s climbing higher; the ceiling is groaning and it won’t be long now before the entire house collapses into itself.

Hand tightening on the gun, the other touching Daryl’s good shoulder, Rick shouts, trying to be heard over the raging fire: “We need to get out!”

Daryl nods and motions to the window, and it’s the same one Rick shot earlier, and _my God what if I’d shot him by accident_ , but there’s no time to dwell on what fucking ifs, they’re getting out, they have to get out of here. They both run to the window and Daryl climbs out first with Rick’s help, and he reaches for Rick’s hand to help him out too, but there are people outside, the police and some guys in uniforms with bright stripes - fire fighters? - and a whole mob of EMTs who grab him immediately, and Rick shakes his head when Daryl tries to fight them and pull Rick along, and then Rick looks back at the floor where Beta is lying dead-

But Beta is not there, and suddenly Rick is yanked back from the window and he screams, an excruciating pain piercing his gut as the giant man buries the same knife Daryl got in him before in Rick’s abdomen and _twists,_ and God, it’s the worst pain Rick’s ever been subjected to in his life, it’s completely different to being shot, and he groans and squeezes his eyes shut, hyperventilating, and then he remembers he’s still got the gun:

He opens his eyes and Beta is grinning at him like a fucking maniac, and _you should be dead, you mother fucking bastard_ , and the thing is, Rick’s never killed anyone before. He shot criminals to stop them and detain them when it was necessary, but he never believed in violence when it wasn’t absolutely required and he’d never use lethal force while he was a cop. At a certain time in his life, he was a firm believer in restrictions to gun laws, he used to think civilians shouldn’t have free access to firearms because of the sense of power owning a gun gives a man. Lori used to be a pacifist too, and while in time Rick learned that such ideas were naive and didn’t really work in real life, he at least remained convinced no man has the right to murder another, save for the capital punishment which requires an unanimous decision of the whole jury.

And yet, he doesn’t even feel anything when he presses the barrel of his Colt Python against Beta’s forehead, and he says, or maybe just intends to say because his throat is hoarse and full of smoke, and maybe words don’t matter but still he wants them heard:

“When you’re both in hell where you belong, tell Alpha that _Rick Grimes sends his regards_ ,” and he pulls the trigger.

He’s never seen a man’s head explode before and he never thought he’d want to, but as blood, pieces of bone and brain matter burst out and cover him from head to toe, Rick isn’t disgusted at all. It’s okay, it’s right. He’s the executioner and he’s calm now. He did his job, he did what he set out to do and he can rest now. He deserves his rest, now.

Reasonably he knows he’s dying. Blood loss and lack of oxygen aren’t the best combination if somebody wants a chance to survive a fire like this. There’s too much smoke and flames aren’t contained to the other side of the kitchen anymore, they’re slowly spreading towards him. Sliding down to the floor next to Beta’s mangled body, Rick drops the gun with its empty, useless chamber, and he lets his eyes slip shut because they hurt too much to keep them open anymore. His mind wanders and he thinks about all the people in his life who are going to be safer now without Beta and his remaining Whisperers on the loose. He thinks about his neighbors, Tara and Denise, who didn’t even know they could’ve been at risk just for associating with the nice suburban dad next door. He thinks about Aaron, Eric and their baby, the three innocent bystanders who were in his house just a few hours ago and could’ve been caught up in this mess, and it’s a damn wonder they weren’t, and Rick’s grateful to whatever deity that’s still listening to his prayers that he’s not going to have them on his conscience. He thinks about Paul, the friendly neighborhood hippie who came to his house with cookies and turned out to have been a guardian angel in disguise all this time. He thinks about Shane who thankfully didn’t come inside the house and didn’t have to risk his life because of Rick’s stupid plan. He thinks about Michonne, about how she wanted to leave but didn’t, about how angry she was at him for saddling her with protecting the kids _just in case_ when both of them knew it was just an attempt to keep her out of danger. He thinks about little Beth who was supposed to find a safe haven with Rick’s family here in Alexandria. He thinks about Carl who’s only just managed to regain the balance after having lost his mother two years ago and who’s about to fall into pieces again when he loses his father. He thinks about little Judith, bound to be raised without both her parents. He thinks about Daryl, who came to his aid and got hurt for it, and he hopes losing Rick won’t break him because Rick’s kids will need him, God will they need him, he’s a wonderful dad to them and Rick’s sure Daryl will do anything he has to in order to get custody, and Shane and Michi will help, and it’ll be okay.

He thinks about his family, his friends and neighbors, about the people who had and would’ve had their magnets on the fridge in this very kitchen.

He thinks, finally, about Lori, and he wonders if she’s going to be proud of him on the other side. _Nah_ , he decides. She’s going to be pissed off that he got himself killed in such a dumb way. She’s probably going to kick his ass.

He smiles, and he dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick dreams and then he doesn't.

The sun always rises early in Georgia in summer. Rick wakes up alongside it, gets out of bed and makes coffee. With the steaming mug in his hands and a chocolate chip cookie in another, he walks to the front door and into the porch. The swing chair is a little damp with the morning dew but it doesn’t bother Rick at all. He sits in the chair and watches the sun rise over the neighborhood in beautiful shades of red, orange and pink.

He doesn’t know how long he spends sitting there. He feels like he’s forgetting something, like he’s supposed to be doing something, but it’s not a nagging feeling, more of an impression, so he ignores it in favor of the peacefulness of the early morning. He listens to the birds and remembers how he used to be able to tell them from one another just by the song; he decides to refresh his memory later so that he can teach Carl to do it, too. Or maybe he won’t have to. He’s sure Daryl knows the calls of all birds native to Georgia. He used to go hunting in the woods often, didn’t he?

“Here you are,” Lori says sleepily, coming to join him on the porch. She’s dressed in her favorite sleeping gown, blue and made of cotton jersey, with a squirrel print at the front. It does nothing to hide her advanced pregnancy and Rick feels a swell of pride and affection for his ex-wife and for the daughter she’s carrying.

“Here I am,” he says with contentment and scoots over on the swing chair. Lori sits down next to him and snuggles up against his side, tucking her feet under her butt like she always does. Her hands are cold. Her circulation isn’t the best when she’s pregnant, she used to have the same problem when she had Carl. Rick remembers with fondness born out of nostalgia as he stayed up late, massaging her limbs for her to get rid of the swelling and the coldness both.

“It’s a nice fantasy life you’re building here, Rick,” Lori admits, smiling. “Where are we? King’s County?”

“Mmm,” Rick hums in agreement. “And Alexandria. I think it’s a mash-up, of sorts. Your parents’ place, some elements from our apartment in Atlanta, and my house in Alexandria. You like?”

“Of course I do,” Lori says. She’s got the most wonderful smile. Rick remembers falling in love with that smile many years ago. He’s not in love with it anymore, not in love with her, but seeing her happy still makes him happy as well. He likes making people happy. People he cares about. He thinks about Daryl, his half-smiles and teasing smirks. He likes those, too.

“Daryl, he’s a good man,” Lori tells him. “I probably wouldn’t have liked him, not at first. I was a really stuck-up bitch sometimes, wasn’t I?”

“You really were,” Rick admits and kisses her cheek. “But if it helps, Daryl wouldn’t have liked you either. He’d have tried, probably. And he’d have tried to not be jealous, but he would’ve been. He’s adorable, you know? But gruff and a bit wild. I think you’d grow to like him like you grew to like Michonne, eventually.”

“I slept with Michonne, though,” Lori reminds him and Rick laughs.

Because she did. They never talked about it, Lori probably didn’t even know that Rick knew, but he did know. Michonne never hides anything from him, even when it’s something terrible. Something like sleeping with Rick’s wife. So she told him, all guilt-stricken and sad, and she was so surprised when Rick told her he didn’t mind.

“Well, Daryl wouldn’t have slept with you, I don’t think,” Rick assures Lori who chuckles.

“I’m a little jealous myself, to be honest,” she says lightly. “When did the two of you meet, exactly? You weren’t even detective yet, were you?”

“Nope. Two years before that, I covered for Jennings and gave Daryl a speeding ticket. I didn’t even remember that before he told me,” Rick explains fondly.

“And he wanted you already,” Lori shakes her head. “Would you have wanted him too, back then?”

“We were still in love, you and me, back then,” Rick says firmly.

“Were we, though,” Lori wonders. “Ah, no matter. What matters is, now you have him and you’re happy. I like to see you happy, Rick, you know that?”

He knows. Lori always used to say that _happy_ is the best look on him. He could be dressed in the ugliest clothes and he could be unshaved, dirty and sweaty, but if he was happy and smiled, the laughter lines around his twinkling eyes made him the most handsome man in the world. That’s what she thought.

“I want to make him happy, too,” Rick confesses to his earlier musings. “I want to marry him, Lori. Would you… Would you be mad?”

Lori giggles and slaps him playfully on the shoulder. “Of course not! You marry that man, Rick Grimes, he’s a keeper. He’s good with our children, he’s good with you. And besides, I told you before, didn’t I? I wouldn’t be mad no matter who you’d end up with after the divorce. What, you think I would’ve been celibate for the rest of my life after you? You were good, dear, but you weren’t _that_ good.”

“Daryl would beg to differ,” Rick teases and they laugh together.

It’s so nice, to be sitting here on the porch, looking out to the empty street. Of course it’s not real, Rick’s perfectly aware of that. He’s dreaming. He knows this Lori doesn’t exist anywhere but in his memories and in his fantasies anymore. He knows he left this swing chair at the apartment in Atlanta when he took the children and moved to Alexandria, all because it reminded him how Lori and he used to haul it to the balcony where it barely fit, and they spent hours there together, Lori talking shit about people they knew and Rick just listening in fond silence. He knows the sun doesn’t rise this early in Virginia.

Hell, he has no delusions: Lori is dead, and this Lori is just something his mind created to keep him engaged with the dream world.

But this fantasy world with only the two of them here, it’s safe, it’s comfortable and warm. Rick’s not sure why he’s dreaming, but something in the back of his mind is telling him the outside world might not be so pleasant right now. It’s not like when he was in a coma after getting shot. He didn’t dream then, at least he doesn’t remember dreaming. He thinks he read somewhere that people dream right before they die. It seems to make sense. He can recall thinking about dying recently. There was a fire, he thinks. Fire and pain.

“Do you think I could stay with you forever?” Rick asks and Lori immediately shakes her head.

“You wouldn’t want to,” she tells him firmly. “You know that, Rick. Out there, people are waiting for you. Aren’t they? Our children, your friends. Your boyfriend. If you stayed here with me, you’d never see them again. They can’t come to you. They can’t reach you. You’d be stuck here with me forever, as long as forever takes before your brain dies and your internal organs rot away. Don’t do that, Rick. It’d be nice, for a time, but it’s not worth it.”

“I miss you though,” Rick says softly.

Lori smiles. “Of course you do. We were friends for so much longer than we were lovers. Friendships, they never really fade away even when love goes. You’re going to miss me forever, Rick. That’s why your mind placed me in your little comfort fantasy. You needed to go back to a time and place when everything seemed simpler. Being with me, even right before the end, was simpler, wasn’t it?”

And it was, so much simpler. Loving a woman, never questioning himself, following a path he stepped onto as soon as he was able to choose his future. Strange how life has ways of changing one’s mind. Before, Rick couldn’t have imagined not being a cop because it was what he was born to do. He couldn’t have pictured himself pining hopelessly after a gruff, grumbly man for weeks, and he definitely couldn’t have found a man’s lips irresistible. But then again, he used to be a completely different Rick Grimes back then. A simpler one.

“He’s holding my hand,” Rick whispers helplessly. “I don’t know how I know, but he is. Out there, in the real world. I can feel… It’s strange, but even though I can feel your touch on me, I can feel his, too, his warm fingers twined with mine. His hands are always warm, have I told you that?”

“You haven’t,” Lori says fondly. “I don’t regret anything, Rick. I was happy being your wife and even happier, having your children. I would’ve been happy being your friend, too. So don’t dwell in memories anymore, okay? You’ve got your whole life in front of you.”

She gets up to her feet and heads to the house.

“I’ll lie down a bit, okay, Rick? You have some thinking to do, I suppose. Tell our children I love them when you wake up.”

Then Rick blinks and Lori is gone. Gone are also the houses in the neighborhood and the street and the beautiful sunrise. Gone is the swing chair. Rick is seven years old, and he’s in the treehouse, and his dad is there with him. This only happened once because the treehouse was meant as a safe haven for the kids; still, there was one time Rick’s dad came inside to interrupt Rick’s sulk. It was during the holidays when Shane was on vacation with his parents, so Rick was bored and tried to befriend some kids from the town across the train tracks. It didn’t go well; apparently, the group of kids he was trailing behind found it a great form of entertainment to try and set a cat on fire. Rick got into a brawl with all six of them and rescued the cat, but along the little scared creature, he brought home a swollen eye, a hole where his front teeth used to be, a broken arm and three bruised ribs.

“What you did, it was very brave,” he says just like he’d said back then, “but very, very stupid, too. Richard, I knew many big damn heroes in my time in the army, and do you know what they all had in common?”

Rick knows, but he still shakes his head to have the memory play out just like he remembers.

“None of them are happy,” his father says, “and most of them are dead. Son, you have to learn how to pick your battles. What you did out there, it had to be done, but it didn’t have to be done by you. You were not the only person in the room. It was not your responsibility-”

“But it was,” Rick protests like he did back then, “because I was the only one _willing_ to do anything. Dad, there was an adult there who didn’t even care. I couldn’t let them go on hurting an innocent just because they’re tougher than me.”

His father looks at him like he’s surprised by Rick’s defiance, before his expression softens and he tousles up his hair with a fond gesture. “I’m proud of what you did, son. Even if the _parent_ part of me wishes you didn’t risk your own hide.”

“I love you, dad,” Rick says, but it’s not part of the memory and the vision fades when he blinks. The next one is a courtroom and he recognizes it immediately: he went there many times, he was called to the stand as witness for the prosecution. Beta’s trial.

He’s in the witness stand right now. There’s a knife in his gut and his vision is hazy, but he can see Beta in the front row; at least what’s left of Beta’s hulking form, headless and bloodied, his limbs scorched.

Ah, so this is where the guilt begins.

“I’m not doing this,” he informs his subconsciousness, and the scene changes immediately, like his brain is behaving itself. He’s in the kitchen now, the kitchen of the house in Alexandria, but it doesn’t carry any signs of the recent events. It’s bright and sunny, and there’s an apple pie in the oven, and Daryl’s standing at the counter, dressed in black jeans and Rick’s old band t-shirt he must’ve bought in the eighties. He’s ripped the sleeves out and he looks amazing. He always looks amazing. Well, not always. He didn’t look amazing when his arm was hanging limply at his side, snapped like a dry tree branch, and when Beta was holding him by the neck, strangling the life out of him. But he looks amazing now. If this is the last image Rick’s going to see before he dies, he’s alright with it.

“Yer not dyin’,” Daryl informs him, rolling his eyes. “Yer just comin’ up with more excuses not to wake up. We’re waitin’ on ya, dummy.”

“I don’t think I control it that well,” Rick protests.

“Bullshit. Yer the only one who does,” Daryl says with conviction. “C’mon, sit. We gotta time to pass afore yer brain catches up.”

“Okay… Got some ideas how to pass the time?” Rick asks, feigning innocence.

It doesn’t work because this Daryl is a construct of Rick’s dreaming mind. Of course he can’t be fooled. He chuckles, full of amusement, and assures him:

“We’re not doin’ that, an’ just so ya know, yer a perv.”

“Difficult not to be, with you to perv on,” Rick says reasonably.

The biggest difference between dream-Daryl and real-Daryl is that the dream-Daryl doesn’t rebuke the compliment, just smiles fondly and shakes his head. Rick misses real-Daryl, who would’ve blushed and stammered something along the lines of _ain’t that pretty_. One day, he’s going to convince this gorgeous man that he’s the most attractive person in the entire Goddamn universe. He’ll lavish Daryl in all the praise he deserves. One day soon, it’s going to happen, now that the Whisperers are done for and Daryl is free to return to Rick’s side.

“Whatever happened to that mole of yours, I wonder?” Rick asks, and shakes his head. Dream-Daryl can’t give him information he himself doesn’t have, so asking about it is pointless. He’s sure Paul and real-Daryl handled the Bureau crisis like professionals. Ousting a mole wouldn’t have been easy, but the technology Rick’s got from the military should’ve provided enough evidence.

“How did ya know about the mole, though?” Daryl asks.

Funny, nobody else has thought to ask. It’s a good thing because Rick would’ve struggled to give an explanation other than _gut feeling_. At least at first.

“The op, it was handled so damn badly,” he says. “Who the hell doesn’t offer witness protection or anything when a convicted murderer known to have threatened the cop who caught him escapes from confinement? Makes no sense. Then all the smaller things. You know, how all the stuff kept happening even though the feds were always within an arm’s reach. How after Beta almost killed you, I still didn’t get told shit in any official capacity. How Paul acted disdainful about the whole affair. I wasn’t sure there was a mole, I thought maybe just a really incompetent asshole. But then, I remembered Scaffold.”

“The FBI agent allegedly blackmailed into workin’ for Beta last time,” Daryl supplies. He hums thoughtfully. “Yeah, never believed the blackmail bullshit.”

“There was no blackmail,” Rick agrees, “just money. So I made a few calls, and one of them was to an old acquaintance of mine, Caesar Martinez.”

“Private dick,” Daryl remembers for him, and nods. “Smart move. Can’t be traced to ya an’ could move ‘round without drawin’ suspicion.”

“Had him check out Lydia Mason’s finances. Just to be sure. Wanted to see if there was any money going strange places. Turned out, there was. See the problem Beta always had was, he wasn’t as smart as Alpha, and even Alpha thinks herself smarter than she really is. What must’ve seemed such a clever cover to Beta wasn’t that clever after all when someone seasoned looked at it. Martinez had one look at the financial operations, like, literally, an hour was all it took, and he found the confirmation I needed: regular transfers of a considerable sum to Gibson Sanders and sons.”

Rick stops talking because it feels too much like explaining what he remembers happening to himself. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t reminisce: he stands there, reaches for a glass, fills it with water, and lets his thoughts wander around the subject.

It didn’t take a lot of digging for Martinez to check that the recipient was a law firm. Old Gibson Sanders died back in the nineties, but two out of his three sons, Jeremy and Mark, continued his work and kept the name because they were much worse lawyers than their father and needed his legacy to draw in new clients.

The third son, Gregory, worked in the Bureau.

For Rick, all that was proof enough, but he knew it was circumstantial as far as evidence would go in court. He had to find something solid, so he had a friend in the IT industry, Theodore Douglas, check out the newest surveillance technologies. The nano-devices the military was rumored to work with seemed like they’d be perfect for the job Rick had in mind: discreet, long-range and, most importantly, possible to connect to using satellites, which made the transmission virtually untraceable for most standard trackers. The trip to Texas was arranged so Rick could obtain some of those; the Senator wouldn’t have been helpful if she wasn’t both Rick’s father’s cousin and, more importantly, the main benefactor behind the program using nano-machines to aid the military.

See, the plan was more complicated than just _piss off Beta to draw him out of hiding, with a flamethrower_. The connections Rick had to use, obstacles he had to work around and the intricacies he needed solved before he could set the whole thing into motion, and even so, much of it all depended on sheer dumb luck as well. It gives him a headache even now as he thinks about it, about how all that careful planning could’ve gone to waste if Gregory Sanders didn’t show up in the mansion for his instructions in person. Rick just counted he would because that was how it worked before, with Agent Scaffold. Still, it was a risk that could’ve backfired.

But in the end, Rick had solid evidence to present to Special Agent Paul Rovia.

“Yer smart,” Daryl says, smiling. “Observant. Ya gotta tell all this to me out there. ‘s gonna be all proud, mushy and blushy ‘bout it.”

“I have to work out how to wake up, first,” Rick replies with a wistful sigh. He’s sort of lost, here.

Daryl scoffs, touches his jaw, strokes it gently. “Oh, ‘s easy. Close yer eyes. Think to yerself, d’you wanna wake up? ‘course ya do. Ain’t gonna hold yer hand forever, so ya better hurry up, though.”

Rick nods. “I love you,” he says, just because he can.

Daryl chuckles. “Go on an’ tell me, then,” he demands, smirking, and Rick closes his eyes, and he thinks: yeah, I’ve dreamt enough.

The first thing he registers when the darkness fades is that breathing is painful and he hates it. Can he not do that anymore? But he thinks he needs air for something, so he tries not to hyperventilate and makes himself inhale and exhale in a steady rhythm to avoid, well, dying. It becomes easier the longer he does it, and soon he can breathe normally without having to concentrate on it too much. That lets him focus on other things, such as, for example, the warmth of Daryl’s hand holding his.

“I dreamed of you,” he croaks out and talking hurts, too. What did he do, swallow a cactus? Ah, no, he remembers now: he almost died in a fire after he took out Beta. With a close range headshot. God Almighty.

“Rick,” Daryl whispers, and Rick opens his eyes. The light in the room is dimmed for the night and his vision is hazy at best, but even so, Rick can tell it’s a hospital room. After all the times he had to be patched up over the last two-something years, he dislikes hospitals, yet he can kind of see the appeal of not being dead, so he’s not about to start mouthing off.

“Been asleep long?” He asks instead, and he winces. Seriously, his vocal cords feel like they’re still on fire. It’s his answer: can’t be long, then, or he would’ve healed up already.

“Three days,” Daryl replies, and Rick notices he looks pretty battered. There’s a bandage on his head and his entire right arm is in a cast. It’s clear he should be in bed, too, but Rick knows how stubborn his boyfriend is. There’s no getting him out of here if he doesn’t want to go.

“Huh,” Rick says. “Beta’s dead, yes?”

“Definitely,” Daryl says, and even though he laughs, it sounds more like a sob. “Thought ya wouldna made it. Wanted to come back for ya, but they-”

“I’m gonna be fine,” Rick assures him. “Didn’t die. Means you gotta marry me now.”

Daryl bites his lower lip and he looks like he’s about to start crying, so Rick gathers all of his feeble strength to squeeze his fingers in reassurance. Daryl squeezes right back, lifts Rick’s hand and places tiny kisses to Rick’s knuckles. Rick smiles at him, and he’s rewarded with an answering smile, shy and uncertain, but genuine - and it’s the most beautiful smile in the world. He doesn’t regret waking up, not at all. No fantasy could ever measure up to the sight of Daryl Dixon looking down at him with those beautiful stormy eyes filled with love.

“Should be callin’ someone here,” Daryl murmurs softly.

Rick nods. “You do that, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

Daryl squeezes his fingers again before taking his hand away. “Doncha dare die on me now,” he warns, and Rick hums in reply. He’s so sleepy. He’s going to take a nap. Just for a moment.

He awakens again to Michonne sitting on the chair with Judith in her lap and Carl standing next to the bed. There’s a doctor in the room explaining something to them and Rick tries to clear his head to listen, but everything is sort of dreamlike still. He thinks he can discern something about painkillers and it makes sense. He was stabbed after all. Damn was it painful. Painkillers are a blessing, in his humble opinion.

“He’s awake,” Carl announces excitedly.

The doctor’s face is unfamiliar when the man draws closer. “Mr. Grimes, good afternoon. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Rick can, so he nods. He wonders where Daryl is. Wasn’t he just here a few moments ago? He must’ve gone to the restroom. Rick smiles and looks at his daughter, holds out his hand to her. Judith reaches for him too, but Michonne doesn’t let Rick hold her because obviously, he’s got a hole in his abdomen and it wouldn’t end too well. But Judith’s tiny hand in his is just as reassuring, and Rick feels his heart warm up with affection. He loves his daughter like she’s his greatest treasure, a masterpiece he created together with the woman who used to be his everything. Her little fingers and her curling hair, her eyes like her mother’s and the little frown everyone thinks looks just like Rick’s. Everything about his little angel is perfect, and he doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost her.

Looking up at Carl, Rick is swept away by another wave of loving affection. His son, so brave and so mature, the boy who lost his mother and almost lost his father, twice now, but who’s still capable of smiling like that: bright-eyed and honest, and so purely joyful, like everything is alright now, everything’s going to be fine, because Rick woke up. And Rick swears to himself, no more almost-dying, no more risking his life pursuing bad guys; that’s done and over, and he’s going to be there for his kids. They need him as much as Rick needs them.

The doctor - he introduces himself as Bob something, Rick doesn’t pay attention - says some things about a surgery and intestines and removal, and something else about physical therapy and not eating pizza any time soon, but it all goes into one ear and out the other. It’s really hard to concentrate on anything. The painkillers must really be top shelf. Rick nods along to whatever’s being said to him, and he’s sure it’s all important, but to be honest, he doesn’t even care. He’s alive. He’s mostly intact. Daryl’s alive. His kids are safe, Michi is safe. Beta is dead.

Rick Grimes went to war, and he won.

But it’s not a costless victory, it turns out. It’s much later, when the drugs they have him on aren’t so strong, that he learns exactly how much he’s paid for the defeat of the Whisperers. First of all, he has what is considered a disability now: after he was stabbed, part of his colon had to be removed and his small intestine had to be re-sectioned, so he’s bound to a light diet for the rest of his life under risk of digestive tract deformation. Beer is out of the question, so is fried chicken, most baked or creamy goods, even peanut butter and unpeeled apples. Not only that, but he’s likely to feel chronic abdominal pain for years to come if not forever. His left arm sustained several burns and won’t look very pretty for a long time yet, not unless he tattoos it or something - yes, he’s actually considering that. He'll never regain its original capabilities for motor function. His lungs are at less than half of their capacity, damaged by the smoke he inhaled too much of. If he’s lucky, they’re going to return to normal within the next few months. The first floor of the house burned down almost completely, but turns out, the steel pillars and outer walls held out and retained the structural integrity of the building, which means it can be successfully fixed to a state from before the fire.

Oh, and there’s an ongoing federal investigation in which Rick is suspected of instigating gang wars and committing wanton murder.

“Of course, it’s a bullshit charge,” Carol says, and she looks nice all tanned from her trip to the tropics, “got Andrea Harrison to be your defense, so there’s no chance it’ll hold. Don’t think it’ll even go before a judge.”

“The Bureau’s trying to cover up the fact they had a fucking Whisperer mole in charge of the case against the Whisperers,” Shane explains. “Rovia’s gonna handle it, said he’s ready to go to the press if anyone tries to pin anythin’ on you.”

So there’s that; apparently the fall of Paul and Daryl’s boss means only good things for the younger agent. He’s going up in hierarchy, from what Rick’s been told.

Nobody knows what’s happened to Daryl, though.

“He checked out of the hospital before you woke up,” Michonne tells him, apologetic. It can’t be right, though; Rick woke up to Daryl’s hand holding his, after all.

He doesn’t correct her, though. He thinks he knows what happened. He thinks he understands why Daryl is gone, this time, and he’s ready to wait for him to come back. However long it takes.

“We’re going to be okay,” he promises everyone, and he truly believes it. Because he created a world where his family isn’t in danger anymore. There’s no madman lurking in the shadows, trying to destroy Rick by hurting those he loves. He’s alive, in spite of that madman’s best efforts he survived, so everything is still before him.

He’s going to get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left, and then the epilogue.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to divide the final chapter into two parts because it became too long. 10k words isn't a good word count for a single chapter in a story where most separate chapters were 3.5k, I think.

Rick’s out of the hospital by the beginning of August, after an entire month of recovery during which his voice steadily returned to its normal register and his gut didn’t stop hurting even for a second. He refused to take more painkillers than necessary, reasoning that it wouldn’t do him any good to get addicted to meds when he’s likely to have to deal with chronic pain for the rest of his life, and Doctor Bob Stookey agreed. Better to tough it out. 

Daryl never showed up at the hospital again, but it’s okay. Really. Rick didn’t expect him to, even though he can’t lie to himself: he misses Daryl fiercely. 

But then he’s out of the hospital, even capable of walking to the toilet by himself, and the family flies him to Georgia, to the Greene farm. He doesn’t mind at all. He’s been wanting to spend some time there this summer anyway, and what better excuse to be in the countryside than for recuperation? So he lets himself recuperate there. The farmhouse is exactly as he remembers it, though his accomodation is better than before; after all, Hershel had him sleep in the barn with the farmhands the last time. He has a bed in the guest room that’s all for his use only, mostly because it’s so tiny there’s no space for more than a bed, a table and an exercise mat. Well, there’s also Cat’s bed which the tomcat doesn’t even use: much to Hershel’s chagrin, the cat sleeps with Rick. 

Rick’s the only person who doesn’t have to work at the farm with the others, save for little Judith, but that doesn’t mean he’s allowed to laze about day and night. His physical therapy is hard and painful even if it’s just basic exercises a healthy person would do without as much as batting an eye. He cries in a very non-manly way for the first few days when he can’t even complete a single set without almost passing out. It’s embarrassing, especially when Beth sees him one of those times as he lies sprawled on the floor, face streaked with tears and snot, limbs trembling. He’s rather unsuccessful in attempting to hide his sobs.

“Here, drink some water,” Beth says in her sweet voice. She doesn’t look like she’s going to laugh at him, and Rick realizes he never even expected her to. 

She waits until Rick’s calmer before she passes him a cloth he can clean his face with. It’s damp and soft, and Rick feels like he can breathe easier with the grime wiped away. He drinks more water and moves back into position to try and do some half-bends. 

“Would you like help with this?” Beth offers, and without thinking, Rick nods. 

And then it turns out, it’s so much easier doing this with assistance. Beth’s melodic voice counts down the half-bends and presses down on Rick’s feet so they don’t lift off the ground. Her counting forces a much slower, steadier rhythm and Rick thinks it might’ve always been meant to be done like this, with assistance. His own stubbornness didn’t let him ask for help and he probably pushed himself too hard because of that.

From then on, Beth voluntarily becomes a regular fixture to his therapy routine, and eventually some of the others join in on rotation, too. Carl likes the sessions, actually. Likes being useful, because apparently there’s not a lot to do on a farm at this time of the year when you’re a fourteen year old boy. 

“I help with the animals in the mornings, you know, feeding, collecting eggs and stuff,” Carl explains, “but then between that and dinner, they all do all kinds of things I don’t know how to do. I don’t want to be a bother so usually I just take care of Judith, but she sleeps a lot in this heat so I get bored.”

“The horrible country life,” Rick teases, but he doesn’t go any further with the mockery when he remembers Carl’s the one in charge of his next exercise.

But Carl doesn’t retaliate anyhow. Instead, he bites his lower lip, and asks, “Beth is going to a friend’s bonfire party tomorrow night. Can I go with? She said I could…”

Rick considers it a moment. Beth is three years older than Carl, so it’s likely her friends are also her age. There could be bullies, there could be some suspicious crowd… but then again, Beth is a good Christian girl who used to sing in the choir. She’s not exactly the type to have drug-dealing, shoplifting friends. And she definitely wouldn’t stand for bullying.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees eventually. “Just stick close to Beth and please, if you drink alcohol, don’t be unreasonable about it.”

Carl scoffs. “Not going to drink, dad,” he says. “Daryl said booze is for pussies who don’t know how to have fun without it. He said a beer with friends is cool, but getting drunk is totally lame. And I’m too young to keep my head, so I’m not gonna try,” he finishes proudly.

Rick chuckles and ruffles his hair. “When’d you get so smart, huh?”

“Told you. Daryl’s words,” Carl replies, shrugging. He sighs. “Wish he were here, though. Could help you with your therapy, too. And he’d kiss it better when it hurts more,” he adds with a grimace that shows precisely what he thinks about old men kissing each other. It makes Rick laugh, though he hides how painful it is, and then Carl giggles as well. 

The kids go to that bonfire party. Carl learns to play some basic tunes on guitar. He also manages to impress the whole group of Beth’s friends with stories of his dad and Daryl fighting criminals and defeating a psycho with a flamethrower. Nobody calls him a loser for liking to take care of his baby sister, and they don’t mind the age difference either. Probably because they aren’t all the same age; there are even younger kids at the bonfire, and they all invite Carl to hang out with them if he has the time. 

Shane uses the fact the Greenes have horses and he takes Beth and Carl riding as often as he can get away from work. He’s the one sleeping at the barn with the other workers this time, and he actually loves it which comes as a shock to everyone, himself included. For someone who doesn’t want to be a farmer, he’s really living his best life as farmhand for the Greenes. He’s good for anything they need: he tends to the horses and cleans the pigpens, feeds the chickens, fixes fences when required, hell, he even helps when it comes time for haymaking. Michonne has a room with Beth, but she spends most nights in the barn with Shane, though she tells Rick they usually go to lie down in the fields and look at the stars. One night in late August, they finally see the meteor showers Shane was looking for in the Alexandria night sky back in June.

“I’m dating him,” Michonne says the morning after, like it’s something new. It’s her turn to help with Rick’s therapy. She’s not gentle about it, and she doesn’t fuss; Rick thinks the sessions with her might be his favorite because Michonne doesn’t make him feel weak by constantly patting him on the back and telling him he’s doing better. She’s ruthless, but also doesn’t let him overexert himself, and he can almost feel the progress day to day when he works with Michonne. 

She says, “I’m dating him officially, this time. Oh and by the way, he brushed up on the pick-up lines. He might have more game than you now, Grimes.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Rick groans through the exercise, and he laughs anyway and winces in pain, and laughs even more. He’s happy for Michi, and he’s definitely happy for Shane as well. They’re his best friends, and they deserve all the joy in the world. And, well, Michonne is definitely good for Shane, she calms him and doesn’t hesitate to kick his ass when he’s being a bag of dicks. Rick’s not sure what Shane has to offer Michi, but he’s not going to question it. He doubts he’d understand either way.

The conclusion to the FBI investigation takes place right before Judith’s birthday. It’s strangely anti-climactic. Like they all expected and continued to assure Rick, the prosecution withdraws all charges against him and the Bureau issues an official apology letter along with a financial compensation. Rick makes sure to thank his benefactors: Andrea Harrison who scared the Bureau off, and Paul Rovia who used his influence to convince the higher-ups that maybe pushing it isn’t the way to go.

Rick is sent a bouquet when the matter is settled. There is no note, no hint to indicate the sender other than the card from the shop it was purchased at. It’s not difficult to guess who it’s from, though, because the flowers are sunflowers and Rick remembers, vaguely, when Daryl watched him tending to the sunflowers in the garden. It was one of those early days, before Rick’s initial crush or the involvement of friendly hippie Jesus, and Daryl played with Judith on the blanket set out on the grass as Rick went about his business. Daryl inquired, then, about the sunflowers which at that time were only green sticks with leaves rising somewhat reluctantly from the ground. It was long yet before they would bloom.

“Why’d ya plant ‘em? Ain’t nobody else got those ‘round here. Yer not gonna get in trouble from some, homeowners somethin’ or ‘nother?”

“Nah. We’re governing ourselves here, full discretion. Nobody’s telling us what to grow in our gardens. As to why… Don’t know, they remind me of home,” Rick replied. “I suppose I thought it was because Michi and Beth like them, but that’s just an excuse, you know?”

“For what?” Daryl asked, frowning. He absent-mindedly swatted Judith’s hand away when she reached out to pull on his hair. He did it gently, too gently perhaps, and it only made Judith redouble her efforts. He gave up eventually. 

“I planted them because I wanted to feel closer to the home of my childhood, I think. My step-mother used to grow them every year. You’d always see the house surrounded by the big yellow flower heads. I guess it just feels homely, now, like… even if I’m far from home, it feels like the sunflowers can make any place feel like home. Does it even make sense, I don’t know,” Rick shrugged. “Call it an old man’s nostalgia,” he joked.

Daryl didn’t laugh, but then again, at that point he never did, not yet. The afternoon went on at the slow pace of people who had nowhere to rush towards. Nothing important happened. Nothing changed for a long time yet. Rick should’ve forgotten all about the conversation, but now when he looks at the sunflower bouquet in the vase on his bedside table, he remembers it all in vivid detail: Daryl’s softness towards Judith even when her antics must’ve annoyed him, the thoughtful look in Daryl’s stormy eyes when Rick told him about the feeling of home. 

He wonders if Daryl knows that all the sunflowers in the world wouldn’t make a place feel like home anymore, not if Daryl himself isn’t also there by Rick’s side. 

Because here, at the Greene farm, Rick isn’t any closer to finding his place in the world than he was right after he lost Lori. He was almost there, for a moment back in Alexandria when he slept in his bed with Daryl Dixon in his arms, before he learned that his happiness was founded in a lie. Before he had to enter a warpath. 

But it’s fine. He’s got all the time in the world now to get it right. Eventually, he’ll be okay. He knows, because there’s a bouquet of sunflowers from an anonymous sender resting by his bed, reminding him that there is a home out there for him. He just needs to wait a bit longer.

Then, there’s the guilt. Rick’s been trying to delay thinking about Beta, about the man’s death, for as long as he could; it worked while he was still hospitalized.  He slept thanks to the medication and he didn’t have much time for his mind to wander because there was always someone with him during the day. But here at the farm, where he’s often all alone in the room with nobody but Cat to keep him company, Rick has a lot of time to think about the events directly preceding his hospital stay; and out of them, Beta is at the forefront.

It’s not like Rick thinks Beta should’ve lived. It’s not like he thinks having him arrested would’ve changed anything, would’ve fixed anything. Yeah, his initial plan was to apprehend the man and have the police or the Bureau deal with the rest, but that all went to hell the moment a damn flamethrower was brought into the picture. Not that it was ever all that feasible to begin with. Rick’s not a child. He knows people like Beta, he’s met many people like that before. Cornered, with nothing left to lose, Beta was a beast more than he was man. He wouldn’t have surrendered even if Rick didn’t pull the trigger. He would’ve fought, and he would’ve killed Rick and never regretted it after.

But Rick, he’s not a murderer. He’s not a cold-blooded killer, and he never killed anybody before this. Of course, he always knew back in the department that it could become a possibility, but he thought he’d left it behind when he retired. Lori used to say he didn’t have it in him, she said he’d never be one of those cops accused of perpetuating aggression. That if there was ever a case of police brutality in their department, Rick would be the last person associated with it. Because he was not a murderer. 

He shot somebody, once, with his standard-issue glock. It was a kid, late teens or very early twenties, white and privileged in the bad way. The kid was so drugged up, he was in his own alternate reality, his pupils so tiny they made his eyes look almost comical. He was aiming a semi-automatic pistol straight at Rick’s head, spluttering nonsense about dictators and prisons. Somebody else in this situation may have taken the kid down because training taught them, police lives are a priority in danger scenarios. Rick didn’t go by the book, though. He tried to talk the kid down, and when it didn’t work, only then did he shoot. At the kid’s leg, right in the knee. He figured, blowing someone’s knee cap beats killing someone, even when that someone’s a junkie with a tendency for dangerous delusions. Even though it was not standard procedure, Rick got a commendation for how he dealt with that situation. He supposed the kid being a local politician’s son had something to do with it.

Even then, he needed to talk with a counselor before he was completely fine with what he did. Nobody died, but Rick still refused to carry his gun for the next few days, like it might’ve compelled him to shoot someone just because he now knew how it felt to do it. Like using lethal force, even in a relatively harmless way, could become an unshakeable habit.

And maybe it did, because now Rick has shot someone, point-blank, with a clear, unquestionable intention to end a life. 

He doesn’t have a counselor here, and he won’t talk to Michonne about traumas because he figures she’s had her share of those already in her life. So instead, he finds Hershel one Sunday morning, and he spills everything: his guilt, his doubts, his truth.

“You’re a good man, Rick,” Hershel tells him. “I’ve known you since you were a boy and I’ve seen you fight bullies to save helpless animals and other children. I’ve never had reason to doubt your character, and I still don’t. If you say you killed a man, it just means to me that you didn’t have a choice. You said yourself, Rick. That man was a murderer and he wouldn’t have stayed his hand if only he had the opportunity to hurt your children. He already did, didn’t he? Wasn’t he the same man who attacked you at your own home?”

“Doesn’t make what I did any less horrible,” Rick protests. “Who am I to decide who gets to live or die? Isn’t that something only God can decide?”

“God doesn’t pull the trigger when it’s someone’s time,” Hershel explains gently. “Who is to know it was not God Himself who made sure your hand was firm and your aim was true? The man you killed, who is to know it wasn’t God’s will that he died at that precise moment?”

“Faith is too complicated for me, I think,” Rick says and sighs wistfully. 

“Don’t worry, Rick. You may not understand how God works, but He understands you. And I sincerely doubt that He hates you for what you did.”

“Would He hate me for loving a man?” Rick asks before he can think twice about it. It’s a dumb question to be asking right now, it’s a dumb course of action to be outing himself, but at least it changes the subject to something easier. Because it is easier, Rick realizes with a start, to talk about his love for Daryl. It’s like even the mere thought of his boyfriend is enough to brighten Rick’s mood and make him optimistic. Even as he comes out to an elderly man, a devout Christian from the countryside in backwoods Georgia.

But Hershel doesn’t go red with anger, doesn’t start spouting insults and doesn’t claim all gays are going to Hell. Instead, he tilts his head curiously. “No, why would He? Believe me, son, God has greater worries than who we love. I… didn’t always see it this way, but my Beth explained it to me, and I finally understood. Love is love, isn’t it? Nobody is hurt when two men or two women love each other, so I don’t see how it’s anybody’s problem but the people involved. Not even God’s.”

And that’s it, no more is said about it; where Rick expected scorn and rejection, he faces none, and he doesn’t know what to think about it. He’s immensely grateful not to lose Hershel’s friendship and respect, but he’s also somewhat disappointed, because he  _ wanted _ to be scorned. Not for loving Daryl, never for that, telling him about that wasn’t planned at all; but for having turned into a murderer - that, he thinks he wanted to be hated for, because he hates himself. It’s weighing on him, making his dreams troubled, yet for some reason, nobody seems to blame him. Seems Rick has to learn to live with it, somehow.

Then by the end of the month, Judith’s turning two. 

Rick can still remember the first time he held his daughter in his arms. She was a few days old, so tiny, so delicate, he was afraid she’d break if he squeezed too forcefully. Like all newborn babies, she was all wrinkly and red, and she was born with a few wisps of blond hair that looked so strange on her otherwise bald head. She had the brightest blue eyes back then which darkened in time to resemble her mother’s. Rick remembers the warring feelings of grief and love overwhelming him, and he knows back then, he didn’t believe he’d make it: he was lost and all alone, and the loss of Lori was overpowering like a punch to the gut. He was giving up. 

This time, when he holds Judith for the very first time after he almost died in the fire, he once again has doubts. Regrets, too, not the least of which is that Daryl isn’t there to wish his Lil’ Ass-kicker a happy birthday. It’s bearable, though, the emptiness left by the man who was only in their life for such a brief amount of time. The second time over, it’s not as painful, because this time, Rick has the drying sunflower bucket in his small guest bedroom at the Greene house to remind him Daryl didn’t betray him or leave him forever. He’s having a hard time with his life right now, but he’ll deal with it. He’ll heal. 

This day is all about Judith, so Rick plays with her and sings her a  _ happy birthday  _ along with everyone else. He helps his princess unwrap her gifts and he even allows her to paint his face blue, red and yellow with her new set of edible body paints. He doesn’t eat his piece of the birthday cake, so the others play Rock, Paper, Scissors for his slice. Michonne wins and shares her spoils with Carl, and Rick pouts because the cake is homemade and looks absolutely delicious. It smells even better and Michonne assures him the smell is nothing in comparison to the taste. What a cruel woman. 

Rick supposes maybe this is part of his penance. Not the inability to eat cake, that’s trivial, but… the chronic pain in his abdomen, the physical therapy from hell, the fact that his left arm is uncoordinated and looks like a horror movie prop. He’ll never be a healthy man again. No matter how well he gets in time, he’ll never regain the fitness from before the fire.

Maybe Daryl won’t dump him for a more attractive, younger guy without a mile-long list of health issues. He doesn’t seem like the type, but then again, don’t all men do that when they reach mid-life crisis? Well, Rick won’t abandon hope. His dick’s still functional, after all, even though his libido is pretty much non-existent right now. It’s probably going to return when there are no other priorities. 

The beginning of September comes right after Judith’s birthday. Before Labor Day, Rick gets a phone call from Paul which makes his skin crawl: Alpha, or Nora Mason, has received the injection. Her funeral will be a private affair, but Lydia Mason says  _ thank you _ , and that he can come if he wants to. 

Rick doesn’t want to. He feels vaguely sick and he can’t eat for the remainder of the day. He knows he’s not the reason that woman is dead, he knows she earned the capital punishment and Rick’s intervention only moved it up a few months. It would’ve happened regardless of his interference, sooner or later. Alpha’s life decisions led up to that moment, not Rick’s.

And yet he can’t sleep that night. When he manages to fall asleep for brief moments, Alpha’s anger plagues his dreams, the wrath from right before she was taken away when Rick told her about the new execution date. Interspersed with those memories are the images of Beta’s headless, gore-stained body on the floor in the burning house. Rick gets out of bed around midnight and spends the night on the porch, looking into the fields and trying to keep his thoughts centered around Daryl. Where he might be. What he might be doing. Is his arm doing better? Rick hopes Daryl will make a full recovery eventually. Can a full recovery be made after a compound fracture? It would suck if it couldn’t, a federal agent really needs his arm fully operational. 

Briefly, Rick wonders if Daryl’s facing any fallout from getting involved when he was ordered away. Even though the man who wanted him out of the picture turned out to have been a mole, it’s possible they still held him responsible for going directly against the order. Rick doesn’t know the kind of consequences somebody could face in the FBI. He’d have to read up on it. 

At least he’s relatively certain it’s not the death penalty.

“Get a grip, Grimes,” he tells himself, and his voice is shaky in the warm night air. “You’ve done well. Just get a grip now, and everything will be alright.”

And maybe he’s lying to himself, trying to make himself believe an optimistic outcome he doesn’t entirely feel he deserves… but he looks up at the sky and for a brief moment, he thinks there’s a shooting star. Quickly, Rick closes his eyes and thinks a wish -  _ come home -  _  and after that, he feels strangely light. In the end, he  falls asleep in the rocking chair on the porch. Nothing wakes him up until the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part will be posted tomorrow morning, after I'm finished with editing it. And then there's just the epilogue on Sunday, and we're done!


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Guys! Oh my God!  
> And even though it already got cut into two parts, this part's still over 8k words. I'm. Speechless.
> 
> Please enjoy. Only the epilogue coming after this!

Two days later, some better news arrive in the form of a phone call from the building crew: Rick’s house in Alexandria is all rebuilt and good to be moved into. With enough money, turns out even the most extensive repairs tend to take no time at all, and Rick’s got the money alright. When he receives the news, he doesn’t know what to think at first. Because on one hand, it’s their house, all of theirs, and it’s the background to some of their best memories. His, for sure. But on the other hand, it’s also where Rick’s children were attacked by a madman, the place they almost lost their father. Wouldn’t it be better to sell it off, find a new place maybe in a different state, start anew?

He doesn’t want to, though. That suburban neighborhood in Alexandria, with their lack of rules regarding gardens, their barbecues and fireworks, their little park with a duck pond, he loved it all. It was somewhere he could feel he belonged, it was somewhere he could call his.

In the end, the decision is made for him when Rick shares the news with the others over Sunday dinner. To his slight surprise, nobody even considers that Rick might be thinking about selling the house. The reaction to the news is a round of applause like he’s just announced he was elected for mayor or something.

“Well, time to call Carol and get some flights booked,” Michonne says with a smile. Judith in her lap continues to clap, likely not very aware of why she’s doing it, but she enjoys it anyway. It must be nice to have not a care in the world, like a baby. Or a cat.

“Can’t wait to start my new school,” Beth sighs happily. She got the phone call back in August that she was accepted into the same school Carl’s attending, her first choice. It means she’s going to know at least a few people there, even if none of them are from her grade. It’s better to at least start with a few familiar faces in the halls than none. During the physical therapy session she helped Rick with the afternoon after she got the call, she told him how she’s going to miss the friends Carl helped her reconnect with back here in the countryside, but she’s still excited for a new beginning. She’s amazing and Rick is proud of her like she’s his own daughter. Might as well be. He’s been feeling like everyone’s Dad lately. It’s a good feeling. Helps him get over the bad stuff.

Shane sighs, too, though it’s not as happy - more wistful and melancholic, like a kid whose summer holiday is ending. “Gotta admit, I’m going to miss farm life. Maybe my old man’s got it right? Maybe I was born to do this?”

“You’d get incredibly bored on a farm,” Michonne assures him, laughing. “You’re only so happy here because it’s so different from chasing bad guys. But you’re made to be a cop, Walsh, and you know it. You’re just like Grimes there. Couldn’t leave the life if you tried.”

“Oh no, I’m done,” Rick says vehemently. “Look, I did my share, got a slap on the wrist for getting mixed up in Bureau business, I’m definitely retired now. Gonna tend to my garden, raise my children and grow old in peace. No crime-fighting in my future, nuh-uh.”

“Yeeeah,” Carl agrees, giving Rick a sidelong glance. “We totally believe you, dad.”

Rick lets them laugh at his resolve. It’s fine. They may not believe it, but Rick knows he’s telling the truth: Rick Grimes the warior, Rick Grimes the cop, he’s dead. He died that night on the Fourth of July when he killed a man in cold blood. It’s a good thing; that person, that Rick Grimes, he’s not needed anymore, not in the peaceful world he died to create for his family. What’s left is Rick Grimes the suburban dad with a very sensitive stomach, an arm he can barely use, a wheezing breath and an unkempt beard. He’s okay with it.

Hershel’s family hold a late-notice, end-of-summer bonfire night party as a sort of a farewell. It’s perfect timing, too, because Maggie Greene’s just arrived home to introduce her boyfriend to the family. Turns out, it’s a small world, because Rick and Shane already somewhat know the boyfriend: it’s Glenn Rhee, the unfortunate pizza chef blackmailed by Beta to perpetrate the Evil Pizza Incident of Doom.

He’s a fun guy, once you get to know him. Rick does, because he sits in a comfortable wicker chair a few feet away from the bonfire, right next to the bench Glenn and Maggie are curled up together on, and he listens to the stories the young man tells about the dangers of the pizza-making industry.

“Would you believe that I’ve been threatened by crazy drug lords on _three_ occasions?” He asks dramatically. “That Beta guy, he was the last, but lemme tell you, he was the _least_ frightening of them all. First time was back in Atlanta, when I was just a kid working delivery. Got the weirdest order ever, a pizza with a cherry on top. Like, with _no ingredients but a single cherry._  And the order form specifically said the cherry had to be smack in the middle, and the pizza had to be cut into eight even slices. Perfectly even and identical. You know how hard it was to divide that stupid cherry into eight even pieces? Guys at the place wasted like a pound of cherries before they got it right, and I got sent with the delivery. So I drive the bike and end up at this weird-ass house with about seventy plastic flamingos in the front yard-”

Maggie snorts inelegantly at that, almost choking at her s’more, and everyone else who’s listening lets out some sort of laughter.

Glenn chuckles and goes on, “Yeah, I know, but that’s not the strangest thing! I go up to the door and knock, and it opens, just a fraction, mind you, and there’s this tiny man, you know, a midget, ummm, is that offensive?” He frowns, looks to Maggie for help.

“Someone who suffers from dwarfism, you mean?” She supplies and kisses him on the cheek.

“Yeah, that’s who I mean,” Glenn agrees with a grin. “So this really short guy opens the door and he asks me, all conspiratorial, low whisper, _Have they seen you?_ I asked him who he meant, thought maybe he had real nosy neighbors or something, but no. He looked at me like I was really dumb and said, _the flamingos, of course!_ I sort of looked back at the front yard and asked him, well, aren’t they plastic, and he just threw his hands up, like, you know, in exasperation, like I just didn’t get it, then he gave me a twenty, grabbed the pizza and shut the door. Then I heard a real weird noise from back in the house, so I kinda just made a run for it, and I _swear_ to you guys, some of the flamingos moved. No kidding. I saw it clear as I’m seeing the marshmallow slipping into the flames from Rick’s stick right now.”

“Shit,” Rick swears and moves to save what’s left of the marshmallow by smearing it over a cracker. He passes it off to Michonne who feeds it to Judith. Judging from the little girl’s reaction, it’s not half bad even if it’s slightly burnt.

“What was the second frightening encounter?” Hershel’s neighbor, Otis, asks curiously. He’s come to the party with his wife Patricia, and brought some venison to cook over the fire. Apparently, he hunts in his free time, though he doesn’t have that much of it because he works for Hershel at the farm while Patricia does the Greenes’ housekeeping. Most of the neighbors do, since Hershel’s the biggest landowner in the area, and also the most fair to those in his employ. They’re good people, Otis and his wife. Otis made especially quick friends with Shane. Apparently, they share an appreciation for baseball and craft beers which isn’t hindered by the age difference between them. They also used to be neighbors when Shane was a little kid, back before his family moved to the countryside near Rick’s.

“Small world,” Shane commented with a grin when he found out.

Glenn smirks as he looks at Maggie, and she chuckles. “Oh,” she says, “I think I was the second of the scary ones. In my defense, I had a really crappy week. Failed my first test, lost my car keys and had to write a ten-key word essay on _marriages in the middle-ages_ for like, Monday. It was Sunday and I was maybe six words in, and at least five of those words were _fuck you fucking fuckery fuck_ which I didn’t think would be smart to leave in the final draft.”

“Yeah, and then the shop made a mistake with the order and had me deliver a pizza with anchovies,” Glenn interjects.

Maggie makes a face at that. “I’m allergic to those things,” she says, “plus they _stink_ , my God. Imagine my face when I open the box, hungry like a hellhound, and that damn stench hits my face like, I dunno, like a punch right to the nostrils. I thought I lost my sense of smell for a moment there, only I didn’t because they still stank a minute later. So you know what I do?”

Rick thinks he has an idea; he once saw Maggie chase after a coyote that tried to steal one of the calves, on her bare feet, with nothing but a handful of rocks. She came out the victor of that one, the calf healthy and back to its mother. The coyote didn’t survive its mistake.

“She ran after me, screaming bloody murder,” Glenn reveals, looking at Maggie with an unmistakable fondness. “Called me names, I’m pretty sure I only understood like, half of them even though English is my first language. You know, I was born and raised in Atlanta, and so was my mom.”

“Yeah, I probably invented the majority of those words on the spot,” Maggie admits sheepishly. “And, anyway, you must’ve liked it, because you invited me out right in the middle of my rant-”

“More like your shouting match,” Glenn corrects her.

She swats at him, but it’s more affectionate than violent. “Anyway, we’ve been together ever since.”

“Oh,” Beth says, doing the math. “Wouldn’t that be… over five years now? You’ve lived in DC for two years now, so…”

“Coming up to six years in October,” Maggie says, smiling.  
  
Beth pouts. “And you’ve only now introduced us? Are you pregnant or something?”

Glenn coughs, having accidentally inhaled his s’more, and Maggie claps him on the back to help him breathe normal again. Rick notices that she’s wearing something on the ring finger of her left hand. Something that glimmers in the light from the bonfire.

“Or something,” Maggie admits, and her smile turns into a full-on grin. “Don’t tell daddy yet. I want to tell him tomorrow after breakfast. It’s his birthday, I figure his first-born getting married and carrying his first grandchild is a fitting gift for his sixty-fifth?”

Beth squeals and hugs her sister, and there’s a round of congratulations and best wishes from everyone sitting near enough to have heard the announcement. Rick looks over at Glenn and sees the love in the young man’s face, the unmistakable glint of pride so evident in all the men he’s known to be exceptional dads. He has no doubt in his mind that Maggie chose wisely. They’re going to be so happy together.

Later, Carl shows off his newly acquired guitar skills and plays some old-school Metallica which sounds mostly really good. Daryl would like it; Rick’s reminded about how the man revealed heavy metal’s his favorite music genre. He can’t help but wonder if Carl’s still inexperienced, sometimes off-key, but heartfelt rendition of _One_ would’ve made Daryl proud. Would Daryl try to sing along? He’s not much of a singer, from what Rick could tell after the few times he heard the man sing to Judith, but then again, that deep, low voice would doubtlessly be better suited to heavy metal than to Disney princess songs.

“You’re thinking about someone you like,” Maggie observes, smiling at him. She’s always been observant. Before, when Rick was fighting depression after Lori’s death, the fire, the shooting, it was Maggie who tried hardest to introduce him back to the world. She was spending the summer and early fall on the farm, helping with the animals and the harvest, and she took Rick on long hikes in the surrounding woods. Once, she took him riding to some historical site, some ruins of an old settler village. Usually, such places were swarming with tourists, but Maggie explained that there was some dispute about the land ownership. Allegedly, it belonged to the state, but it turned out the Cherokee had a claim to it and could support it with documentation.

“Theoretically, we could be shot for trespassing here,” she said cheerfully, “but you know, I don’t think it’s gonna happen. Daddy’s the biggest dairy and egg supplier this side of Georgia, and, well. The Cherokee are some of our neighbors. They come work for daddy sometimes, they get paid same as everyone else. I don’t suppose either side would mind us having a little walk among the trees, regardless of who the land they grow on belongs to.”

Rick had a lot of fun that day. Maggie dared him to jump over a fallen tree and he tripped over it instead. He fell into a landfill and Maggie had to find a long tree branch to help him climb back up. Miraculously, he didn’t sprain anything, and they managed to return to the farmhouse in time for dinner, both covered in mud and stained from the leaves and grass. It was one of the rare occasions Rick laughed, back then, when Patricia threatened to hose them down if they didn’t clean up before coming to the table.

So, yeah. It’s no surprise Maggie can read Rick like a book.

“Someone I love,” he corrects, and Maggie smiles at him.

“It’s good to see you like this,” she says sincerely. “Back then, I was worried. You went through so much, and you were like a ghost, you know? More dead than alive, even though your heart was still beating. I wasn’t sure you’d make it. None of us were. But now?”

“I’m making it,” Rick promises, returning her smile. “Got my family to live for. That includes you, too, Mags. Don’t be a stranger, alright? DC ain’t that far from Alexandria. You could even make it by horse real quick.”

Her laughter makes it impossible for Rick to be sad, so he isn’t. He excuses himself, though, says goodnight to everyone and goes back to his guest bedroom, for the last time this summer. His bag is already packed, filled with a woefully small amount of his belongings because he didn’t exactly have any time to pack any stuff before coming to Georgia. The dried sunflowers are also carefully packed in a carved wooden box Otis made for him, and Rick feels reasonably certain they’re going to survive the flight unscathed. Still, it’s a bit empty not to see them sitting in their vase at his bedside table.

But he’s not sad. It’s a nice night, all nights in summer in Georgia are nice, but especially the nights when everything smells of the woods and bonfires and dew in the grass. Next time he’s here, Daryl’s going to be with him, too, he hopes. And they probably won’t be in this small bedroom, but in the barn, making out lazily on a bed of hay and smelly blankets, and it’ll be perfect because they’ll be together. Maybe someone would walk in on them. Maybe it’ll be Carl, and he’ll make a face and dump a bucket of water at them to punish them for the PDA.

Rick chuckles to himself. He must be crazy to think of it as a perfect fantasy scenario, but damn, he does, crazy or not. He can’t wait for the family to be back together, all of them.

He opens the box with the sunflowers, runs a finger carefully over the dried petals. He then lifts the finger to his lips and kisses the tip, imagining briefly that this way, he’s sending the kiss to Daryl, wherever he may be right now.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark room. He packs the sunflowers away and gets into bed and Cat immediately climbs into the sheets to curl up on his legs. They both sleep like babies until the morning.

The neighborhood looks completely unchanged when the family return home on Tuesday, maybe save for the lack of some flowers which are past their blooming season in the neighboring gardens. Only when Rick enters the house can he spot the differences: there is no carpet in the hall and the walls are all a warm beige instead of the old stark white. The metal-framed mirror which perished in the fire was replaced by the crew that did the interior finish with a wooden-framed one that’s arguably prettier, and definitely looks homelier. There's no cat hair on every surface, but that's soon bound to change, he supposes, what with the way Cat rubs himself against anything he can find to mark it as his own. The kitchen appliances are all new. The most glaring difference, at least to Rick, is that there are no magnets on the fridge.

It feels so hollow, looking at the empty white door of the refrigerator. Rick already misses his mother duck and the ducklings, Michonne’s samurai sword, Beth’s flowers and Shane’s teddy bear. He misses Carol’s kittens and Maggie’s cowboy horse. Hershel’s veterinary logo, too, and even Lori’s cartoon otter. Most of all, he misses the pink glittery rider because while he still has the people associated with the other magnets, Daryl is about as lost to him as his magnet is, for all he knows about the man’s current whereabouts.

But life goes on. The kids go to school and Rick continues his physical therapy at home; he also slowly gets back into the habit of cooking for the family, and he discovers there are actually recipes for people with his kind of diet that consist of things much more adventurous than plain oatmeal and steamed vegetables. Shane returns to work at the station and just as expected, he forgets all about his farmhand days in the midst of an exciting new investigation he is assigned to. Surprisingly, though, he decides to move into Rick’s house after all, even though he used to be vehemently against it.

“For the time being,” he reasons, “to keep an eye on you guys. Need to make sure you ain’t gonna start any crazy shit again, Grimes.”

He doesn’t move into Michonne’s room, even though it wouldn’t have been unexpected; says he wants to make sure Michonne has her privacy whenever she needs it. He takes the second bedroom downstairs instead, and just like that, Rick doesn’t have any guest rooms left for visitors anymore. He wonders if he should convert the garage into a sort of a summer house or something like that. He supposes he could fit two or three small bedrooms in there. Or he could buy the house across the street, dig a secret tunnel between the basements, maybe make a fallout shelter too while he’s at it… Carl’s head is full of ideas.

Because, yes, the house across the street goes up for sale almost as soon as Rick and the family return to Alexandria. Paul explains that it was rented by the Bureau specifically for the operation and then the owners decided to let it go after they heard the neighborhood wasn’t really very peaceful. For a moment, there’s some gossip that the place actually belongs to Lydia Mason and thus is tied to the Whisperers, but turns out it’s entirely unfounded and the house actually belonged to an older couple who decide to move to Hawaii for their senior years.

Eventually, Rick buys the house, though he doesn’t have a tunnel or a fallout shelter dug up under the street. Carl calls it a wasted opportunity. Rick calls it practical, but then again, he just bought a house he doesn’t need, so maybe he shouldn’t preach about practicality. He plans to give it to Michonne and Shane later. He knows they won’t accept a gift like that easily, but he’ll find a way to convince them. After all, it’s for selfish reasons: he wants to keep them close even when they inevitably establish their own family… well, he hopes they do. They’d make really pretty babies if they wanted to. And badass. Though he really hopes they don’t inherit Shane’s personality. One bag of dicks is enough in the world.

Since he’s not digging a fallout shelter, he lets Carl make one in the basement, though. He used to have his treehouse, after all. Carl deserves to have one of his own, too, even if it’s under the house, dark, gloomy and filled with pretend-supplies, pretend-weapons and a bunch of kids pretending it’s the end of the world and the outside is overrun with zombies. After all, who’s to say their idea of fun is not as good as his was? They’re children. Rick reckons it’s best to leave them to come up with their own fun... and this way, he can keep his eye out on potential trouble.

September flies by and before Rick knows it, it’s his birthday. He’s thirty-eight and about as capable of running a marathon as a ninety-year-old grandpa, but at least he doesn’t wear diapers, so everything is fine. To celebrate being a year older, he bakes loads of apple pie he can’t eat, makes a carrot cake he actually _can_ , and invites everyone in the neighborhood to a barbecue party just because he wants to.

It’s the first time he sees Paul, Aaron and Eric in person since the fire. All three are very eager to hug him like it’s been years and not merely a little over a month. Paul’s hands linger around his waist and Rick swears they wander down to touch his butt just a bit.

“For old time’s sake,” Paul says with a lascivious wink that’s so absolutely exaggerated, nobody could ever mistake it for a sincere attempt to flirt. Rick wonders if he really is surrounded by people so outrageously bad at seduction, or if they all just pretend for his sake so he doesn’t feel embarrassed by his own lack of skill. Judging by the fact that this friendly hippie Jesus disaster of a federal agent is in a happy relationship with two men who are very much in love with him, Rick can’t help but assume the latter is true.

Damn. At least Daryl fell for his charms in spite of how bad his game is.

Speaking of. “Any word from Daryl?” Rick asks, but he doesn’t expect anything much.

“Well, not a word, nope,” Paul replies, “but now that you mention it, I got this. It came to my office with a note to pass it on to you. I could recognize that guy’s chicken scrawl anywhere,” he jokes and hands Rick a small cardboard box.

Rick doesn’t even pretend he’s patient when he opens it. Pieces of cardboard and tape fall to the ground, but he doesn’t care, he’ll clean it up later. When he sees the contents of the box, his heart skips a beat.

The magnets. His family’s fridge magnets. There’s the mother duck and her ducklings, and everyone else’s magnets too, they’re all there save for the pink rider.

There’s also a note:

_Wanted to keep them with me, but I think it’s time they went home. Save a spot for me, too._

It’s not signed and for anyone else, it might’ve seemed somewhat impersonal, the way it’s written. Rick knows how to read Daryl, though, and he understands the note for what it is: wherever Daryl is right now, he’s lonely, but he’s going to come home sooner or later as well, just like the magnets he sent back. And he’s hoping he will still be welcome, like there’s ever been a possibility he wouldn’t, and Rick wishes he could tell him that yes, of course, he’s part of the family, he’s always welcome at their home.

He misses Daryl so much, more with every day that he has to spend without him. The sunflowers in his bedroom and the angel wing vest under his pillow are helping, but he’s not sure how much longer he can do this.

He doesn’t think about that now, though. Instead, he returns the magnets to their rightful spots and makes sure there’s space left for the pink rider for when it’s eventually back, too. Immediately, the kitchen seems warmer, homelier, and Rick thinks it’s one step closer to the house being a true home again. Michonne finds him at the kitchen, staring at the fridge with a doubtlessly dumbstruck expression on his face, and she grins as she asks, both joyful and surprised:

“Where’d you find them?”

“I didn’t,” Rick says, smiling back at her. “It’s a birthday gift.”

He shows Michonne the note and she frowns. “How’d he get them, then? I mean, he didn’t wrestle Beta just to get some magnets, that’s for sure… but then, when? Did he come back here later? Were the magnets just there, intact?”

“Listen, I know as much as you do,” Rick assures her, shaking his head, smiling fondly. “And it doesn’t matter. He got them, and he sent them to me. You know what it means?”

“He’s a sentimental fool, just like you,” Michonne mutters, but her expression is fond. “And, I think it means he’s coming home, someday.”

“He’s definitely coming home,” Rick agrees.

But Daryl still doesn’t return, not for a long time yet. Weeks without him turn into months, but the passage of time isn’t unbearably slow like Rick’s expected it to be; life just goes on. Halloween comes and goes, and Rick’s pumpkin patch didn’t survive the fire so they all carve some store-bought pumpkins into the most impressive Jack-o-Lanterns they use to decorate the front yard. Shane’s is the best, unexpectedly. The carving on it is layered and all. It looks amazing in the dark. Carl, Beth and their friends bring home so much candy, even Michonne can’t stand to look at chocolate for a week afterwards. Judith’s first trick-or-treating goes splendidly with her dressed as a tiny zombie Carl uses as an accessory to his monster-hunter costume. A baby zombie is a terrifying concept, but Rick doesn’t think about it too much. Judith looks happy, so there’s that. Maybe it’s because some of the fake gore Carl’s used as part of her makeup is actually strawberry jelly. She eats most of it throughout the evening.

Rick saves some candy in the pantry he made in the unused part of the garage. For Daryl. He doesn’t tell anyone because he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t survive long if he did. It’s not a lot, a couple of KitKats, a few caramels and a handful of mini Hershey bars, a packet of Reese’s Peanut Butter Miniatures. Just enough for Daryl’s sweet tooth.

Then after that, Thanksgiving arrives surprisingly quickly and Rick knows he has a lot to be grateful for, and he really is: his children are healthy and happy, even though Carl is somewhat over-protective of him which isn’t normal for a boy his age, and Judith tends to cry when she hears loud noises reminiscent of gunshots. But they’re both fine, and they’re getting over the nightmare they went through, and Rick loves them so damn much. Beth is blooming in her new environment and her return to school is ecstatic instead of traumatic. His two best friends are very obviously in love, unlikely as they would’ve seemed as a couple but a few months ago. His sister is working actively towards fostering Lydia Mason so the girl can have some semblance of a normal life until she reaches adulthood, and it’s apparently going well, so well that Lydia is spending the holiday with her soon-to-be new family. Paul’s moved in with Eric and Aaron, officially as their roommate, family friend, babysitter or whatever other innocent lie they told the people who asked; and it’s so obvious the arrangement is making them all incredibly happy. The neighborhood is thriving and Rick is surrounded with so much love and joy, his heart feels like it’s going to burst with it sometimes. There’s only one thing missing, but it’s okay. He has the sunflowers to look at, and that makes it better. So he’s thankful.

Unexpectedly, a postcard arrives sometime in late November. It’s a typical stock postcard from a beach vacation destination, some place called Kiawah Island which Rick looks up. It’s in South Carolina, and the postcard it depicts mostly sand and water. The postmark is from Florida, though, so there’s really no way to pinpoint when Daryl is right now if he’s been moving around so much. If he’s close or far. But he feels close.

The message scribbled on the back of the card says:

_Dealing with my shit, one brick at a time. Miss you every day. Hug our kids from me. -D_

Rick shows everyone the postcard, just the picture side of it, before he hides it in his bedroom and reads it over and over every night. He all but melts every time at the _our kids_ bit, and the _miss you every day_ part makes him all fuzzy and tingly inside. He misses Daryl, too. So much. But he’s dealing with shit, too, shit all of his own, so he really gets that. Can’t blame Daryl for staying away, even though he wishes with all that he has that Daryl hurries up and just comes back to him already. God, the separation is so hard. But it’s not forever. It’s temporary, and Rick can wait, because Daryl will return to him one day.

He’s started seeing his psychiatrist again, and slowly but surely, he’s been sleeping better. The guilt is still there, still present, but no longer at the forefront of his mind. He’s starting to accept what he reasonably knew to be true from the beginning: that there was no other option for him but to kill Beta. That it doesn’t make him a murderer, just like death didn’t magically make Beta an innocent victim. It’s progress. He’s not there yet, he still wakes up from nightmares of headless corpses and screaming pale women sometimes, but he’s getting better. Eventually, he knows he’ll be okay again.

He’s got his sunflowers, his postcard and the magnets on the fridge. He feels that this helps just as much as the psychiatrist, but he keeps it to himself.

His abdominal pain’s down to a level he can deal with nowadays. He no longer needs the painkillers, he hasn’t been taking them on the regular since mid-August probably, but now he truly doesn’t feel miserable without them. The arm’s not bad either. It doesn’t hurt, but unfortunately, it’s never going to return to its former functionality. Rick’s just lucky it’s not his dominant arm. Doctor Stookey recommends him for some cosmetic surgeries, skin grafting to get rid of some of the scarring, but Rick decides it’s not worth it. Maybe he’ll get that tattoo instead. He can think of about a dozen designs for the full arm that could incorporate a sunflower motiff.

Then it’s December, and with it comes the frantic time of Christmas preparations. Carol takes Rick out shopping in DC, and though it’s nowhere near as intense as their usual gift-hunting trips, Rick still returns home so exhausted he’s barely able to lift a finger on the day after. To his surprise, Carl makes and brings him breakfast to bed, a perfectly prepared plate of poached eggs on white bread, and a tall glass of mint-and-mango herbal tea. It’s delicious. He tells Carl so and the boy visibly brightens.

“I think I like cooking,” he admits, blushing a little. “Though Beth’s helped me. Didn’t know how to make eggs without any oil...”

“You’ve done amazing,” Rick assures him. Carl grins and then goes back downstairs, claiming he’s got a test to study for. Rick’s pretty sure there’s not much studying going on down in the fallout basement, especially now during the winter break, but whatever. It’s not like he’s in any shape to get up and check, and anyway, he figures Carl’s a responsible boy, he knows best when he can afford to let go and enjoy the free time.

On Christmas Eve, Paul brings him another package. It’s much bigger and somewhat heavier than the previous one. It’s not gift-wrapped or anything, just plain cardboard duct-taped closed. Rick has to use a knife to unpack it. Inside, there’s a crossbow, disassembled, each piece wrapped neatly in bubble wrap. Rick hasn’t seen it before, just heard stories about it, but even so, he immediately recognizes it as Daryl’s.

“Weird,” Paul comments. “That guy’s used this instead of his standard-issue gun whenever he could get away with it. Wouldn’t give it up. Why’d he get rid of it?”

Ignoring the pang of worry that makes him think of compound fractures, dominant arms bent at weird angles and painful recoveries, Rick forces himself to smile as he explains: “He knows it’s going to wait for him at home. He’s not going to get much use of it during the winter, anyway. Thanks for bringing it along.”

“Sure,” Paul shrugs and smiles somewhat shyly, which must be a first for him. At least Rick’s never seen him like this before. “Actually, I came to invite you guys to dinner at Eric and Aaron’s… um, at our place, the day after tomorrow? You know, a Christmas-reprisal. I mean… You’re kind of family for us, now, so we thought it’d be fun to have a little celebration together, if you’d like-”

“We’ll be there. I’ll bring something delicious,” Rick promises.

The Christmas-reprisal is actually merrier than the Christmas dinner at Rick’s. Eric made sure to include food types Rick can eat in the dinner. There are vegan treats for Beth and lots of apple-based foods Judith absolutely loves. Shane gorges himself because he has no self-control around food and jokes that he’s never going back home, he’s staying here and getting fat until he’s round enough to roll back like a snowball. Michonne tells him she doesn’t do fat men. It makes Shane pout and whine to anyone willing to listen that she’s only dating him for his gorgeous body.

“You’d have to be gorgeous for that first,” Carl says, deadpan, and Michonne gives him a high-five. Rick almost dies after he inhales his water at hearing it. Shane pretends to cry. Eric rolls his eyes and brings more potatoes from the kitchen.

After dinner, they all occupy the living room, drinking eggnog, spiced hot chocolate and, in Rick’s sad case, mild herbal tea which doesn’t taste half bad now that he’s used to it. It’s dark outside, snowing. It’s one of the things Rick likes about living in the suburbs here in Virginia; Christmas in Georgia hardly ever used to be white. At one memorable occasion, before Carl was born, the whole Christmas week saw temperatures around the mid-sixties. Lori got him ice skates as a gift that year. She swore it was not ironic, and she had the most sincere apologetic expression when he unpacked his present.

Rick got her a pair of snowflake-shaped earrings that year. It was totally ironic.

“You mentioned magnets earlier,” Aaron says and hands Rick an envelope. “For the fridge. We, ummm, went ahead and ordered some, had them custom-made. You know, to represent us. On your fridge. Uh.”

“He knows, silly, don’t be nervous,” Eric reprimands him fondly.

Rick grins and looks at the magnets. It’s incredibly easy to tell which one is for whom. Eric’s is a nice rainbow flag, that goes without saying. Aaron’s is a black motorcycle outline on a white background, part of the logo of his garage. Paul’s is a merge of the two: the black motorcycle pasted on the rainbow flag background. And then there’s Gracie’s magnet: a somewhat strange looking frog with a top-hat and a ribbon tie.

“She picked it herself,” Eric explains.

“We showed her pictures and she picked this one,” Aaron adds, smiling.

Paul looks affectionately at the little girl he’s holding in his lap. “She’s so smart,” he announces with the amount of pride only a father is capable of. Rick would know. He’s exactly as proud of Judith for her every accomplishment, even if that accomplishment is eating a spider before anyone can stop her.

When they arrive home, Rick puts the new magnets next to all the others, and he smiles at Tara and Denise’s joint magnet depicting two cartoon-style brides holding hands, and at Glenn’s small round pizza in a baseball cap next to Maggie’s cowboy horse. His family is growing, their bonds are strengthening, and Rick would do everything to keep these people in his life. He loves them all.

New Years passes and they’re all one year older. The suburban winter here in Alexandria is rather mild after the pleasantness of the snow at Christmas, and it lasts only until the second half of January. February passes mostly uneventfully, save for a mild case of pneumonia which keeps Shane in bed for two weeks much to everyone’s chagrin because Shane is apparently a complete and utter drama queen when he’s under the weather. The other thing is, a second postcard arrives from somewhere in the Appalachian Trail up in Maine. It depicts the rising sun behind the peaks, and it’s one of the prettiest landscape photos Rick’s ever seen on a postcard. The note in the back, longer this time and written in tighter script so it can be squeezed into the small space, says:

_Happy birthday to me. Watching sunrise, freezing my ass off. Getting there. Wish you were here. Hope you can wait a while longer. Always yours, D._

In March, after some surprisingly simple exercises recommended by the local gym’s professional coach, Rick’s lungs are at over eighty percent of their original capacity and he’s finally cleared by Doctor Stookey for activities more strenuous than sitting around doing nothing outside of physical therapy. As soon as he comes back from that appointment, he changes into old sweats and a hoodie he won’t miss, and he goes to work on his garden. He fixes the vegetable patches and buys a swing bench he has Shane assemble and place under the tree. The branch the old swing was hanged on broke some time after they moved back in, the tree damaged by the fire apparently, and so the swing can’t be replaced exactly like it was. The bench works, though. As soon as Shane sets it up with Carl’s help and under Rick’s supervision, Cat decides it’s his new favorite place to nap. Michonne shares the sentiment and often relaxes there when it’s warm enough, although she isn’t always at home: she got herself a job at the library.

“I need the company of books sometimes or Walsh’s illiteracy may catch on me,” she claims. “Have you seen that guy’s texts? I swear, Dixon’s got better grammar than that.”

Rick agrees because strangely enough, each time Daryl’s written anything for him, be it texts on the phone in the past or the more recent postcards and note, it was mostly proper grammar with few mistakes. Meanwhile, Shane’s idea of text communication involves no punctuation, no capital letters and no grammar rules. It’s fascinating.

As the weather continues to improve, the garden becomes a great place for Judith to be learning to walk. It’s safe, Rick’s made sure there are no spots she could hurt herself at, and she’s never there without supervision anyway. She is capable of taking more than a few steps at a time now, and what’s more, she can speak a human language whenever she pleases. Her most frequently used words include “dad”, “cat”, “apple” and “daddy”, the latter of which apparently doesn’t mean Rick at all. It’s not a surprise; she used to refer to Daryl as _da_ before, so it’s not that big a stretch that she’s come up with another similar word for him now. And Rick soon finds out she does indeed refer to Daryl when she says _daddy_. She asks when _daddy_ will come home (Rick wishes he knew what to say), and if she can go play in _daddy’s_ room (she always can), and if _daddy_ will let her play with the bike once he’s back (probably; Daryl’s no better than Rick at denying her anything), and will _daddy_ like her new drawing when he sees it (of course he will).

Apart from Rick, Judith is really the only one who’s not afraid to draw attention to the fact Daryl hasn’t returned yet. The others act like talking about it would make Rick lose his mind in grief or something. It wouldn’t, he’s doing fine, he’s actually doing alright. In fact, maybe if the others acted normal about it, he’d be somewhat less frustrated.  

“Haven’t you considered that they miss him, too?” Eric asks when Rick complains about the others treating him like he’s made of glass. “Maybe talking about it makes them realize it all the more. You’re pretty and we all like you, but believe me, you’re not at the center of everyone’s world. We’re all allowed to miss people, too.”

And Rick has to admit, it hasn’t even crossed his mind, but it makes so much sense. Of course Carl misses Daryl. He had such a great relationship with the man, he felt more comfortable talking to him than to Rick when he had a problem, and he thought Daryl was so cool. Beth, too, had a special connection with Daryl even if they seemed to be nothing alike at all; she didn’t use to talk to Rick about the scars on her wrists, but she told him that she talked to Daryl because he had his own and it was easier. Michonne made such easy friends with him, it was like nothing Rick’s seen before with her, and though she’s still not completely forgiven him for hiding the truth about being with the Bureau, it doesn’t change that she just wants him back so she could be angry with him from up close. Even Shane liked the guy, enough to fall into playful banter and non-serious threats with him that made everyone else roll their eyes, but which were just his ways of showing affection. Not to mention Paul, who’s been coming to check up on Rick’s old motorcycle, the one that’s now Daryl’s, the Super Glider FXE, claiming he just didn’t want Aaron’s hard work of keeping it in top shape for so many years to go to waste. Of course all of Rick’s family miss Daryl as much as he does. More, possibly, because they don’t understand his motivation for being gone as well as Rick does.

They miss Daryl because he’s theirs, as well, not just Rick’s.

April comes with more weather improvement and a sense of anticipation that Rick can’t understand. He hasn’t received a postcard or a package in a while. He doesn’t have a reason to be so happy and excited every morning as he wakes up, and he actually starts to consider an extra appointment with his psychiatrist, just to make sure he isn’t falling into some kind of a manic episode all of a sudden. Maybe it’s an unusual response to the past trauma, a delayed one, now that he’s no longer experiencing frequent nightmares and his pain’s lessened to such an extent that he barely even notices it most days.

He never gets to do it, though. One morning on the first Tuesday of April, a beautiful, sunny morning, he gets out of bed with the same feeling of nervous anticipation he had before his first date with Lori over twenty years ago. He washes up and gets dressed in his best-fitting jeans and a nice shirt, makes breakfast and feeds Judith, and then he takes her out on a walk to the park. It’s been a long time since they went to the park together because he no longer can carry Judith due to his disability. Usually Michonne takes the little girl later during the day when she’s back from her part-time job at the library. But today, Rick feels like it, feels like _not going_ just ain’t gonna cut it, so he just dresses his princess in her favorite blue dress, takes the stroller, straps her in and takes her to feed the ducks.

His heartbeat is much too fast for a casual stroll at the park and he knows why. He also hates it, because he knows he’s going to be so disappointed when his silly expectations don’t come true. It’s the first Tuesday of April, though. A year ago on the first Tuesday of April, his life changed completely. His little girl was in danger and their guardian angel arrived out of the blue to save her and to ultimately save Rick, as well. It was a nice, sunny day just like today, too. So maybe… maybe.

The bench where he used to bring food for who he thought was a homeless man last year is empty and Rick tries to suppress the hurt in his heart. It was dumb to expect otherwise, he knows that reasonably, but love isn’t very reasonable, now is it? He sighs. He takes Judith out of the stroller and feeds the ducks with her, explaining to her how feeding them with bread is dangerous for them; that’s why the birds are getting sliced apples and grains instead. He watches his little girl nod along to the explanation like she fully understands what it means - _she’s so smart_ , he thinks proudly - and he notices Paul, Aaron and Eric with Gracie in a stroller a ways ahead. There’s another man with them, a man wearing black jeans and a leather jacket that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders as it stretches across them, and Rick’s heart leaps into his throat.

He picks Judith up almost without wincing, and heads towards them, forgetting the stroller for the moment. The man still is standing with his back to Rick, but Paul motions to Rick and the man slowly turns-

He’s got a new scar on his cheekbone and maybe the bags under his eyes are more pronounced, but his eyes light up when he sees Rick and Judith. The little girl squeals happily and reaches out for him, calling him _daddy_ and Daryl looks to Rick for permission first before he takes her into his arms and hugs her like he’s missed her so much; and it’s easy to see on his face that he _did_ , because the way he smiles and the way his eyes are filled with tears can’t be faked. Then he sets her on the ground and says something to her quietly, and Judith giggles and lets Eric hold her hand. Daryl straightens and looks at Rick, biting his lower lip, nervous, and he’s _so beautiful_. Rick almost forgot. He doesn't know how he could have. 

Daryl reaches into his pocket and retrieves something. He shows it to Rick in an outstretched hand. It’s an FBI badge with the word _retired_ punched into the metal part with regularly placed dots. Underneath, there’s something pink and glittery. The rider magnet. The only piece missing.

“Heard yer in the habit of pickin’ up strange homeless men from the streets,” Daryl says and his voice is warm and deep, and exactly as Rick remembers it. “Well, I’m technically homeless now, so-”

“Shut up,” Rick interrupts, and Daryl opens his mouth like he wants to go on talking, maybe to apologize, and it’s all so useless and so stupid, there’s too much to say but none of it is really necessary, none of it is important, so Rick just shakes his head, takes a step towards him and shuts him up with a kiss; and when Daryl melts into him and kisses back, Rick knows his wait is over: they’re both finally coming home.

At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you happy with how it ends?  
> Because I am. I really, really am. And I'm getting emotional over it.
> 
> The epilogue will be up about the same time tomorrow, or slightly earlier if I can get myself to edit it without crying ;)


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be pornz at the end.

An August weekend after Judith’s fourth birthday finds Rick and his extended found family at the beach in that secret cove Rick showed Michonne a long time ago. Even though it’s summer, the place is secluded and there are no other people there but those with whom Rick shared the secret location.

Everyone he wanted there, is there:

Eric and Jessie Anderson are engaged in a deep conversation about hairstyles for curly hair. Paul and Aaron are sitting to the side, discussing blueprints for Aaron’s first original design of a cruiser that’s soon going for sale; with Daryl working at the garage three days a week, Aaron’s finally had the time to devote to the design. Shane is half-asleep face-down on the towel and Michonne is busy burying him under the sand, starting from his feet; she’s at the butt right now. He doesn’t seem to mind. Tara and Denise went for a walk in the forest. Maggie and Glenn are dancing to the soft pop music from the radio, just because they can, and Hershel’s rolling his eyes at them while cradling his sleeping grandson, little Hershel Junior. Carol, dressed in a pretty floral dress, is playing badminton with her husband who looks much less scary when he looks at her with genuine affection painted all over his face. The kids are all playing along the shoreline, a whole gaggle of them, from toddlers to teenagers. Beth’s making sure the youngest children are a safe distance from the waves. She’s holding Carl’s hand and it still makes Rick’s son blush like a red signal beacon. He’s sixteen now and his old crush on Beth became something much more serious. For a while, it looked like it might’ve ended up in his first heartbreak because Beth didn’t seem to reciprocate those feelings or treat him as anything but a brother… but then Beth asked Carl out to her prom. They’ve been going out ever since. They make a cute couple.

Cat is also there, walking alongside them on a leash held by a very happy Judith, and exploring. He must like the smell of the ocean for the fish. He’s already got fed one caught earlier by the kids when they were fishing at the jetty. He’s a very happy old cat indeed.

“That dopey smile looks good on ya,” Daryl says and traces said smile on Rick’s face with his warm finger. There are grains of sand on it.

Rick kisses the fingertip poking at the corner of his lips, then spits out the sand. “Nothing can ruin my good mood,” he says and leans into his boyfriend’s side, sighing in contentment when Daryl immediately accommodates him in his arms. Rick’s not wearing a shirt and Daryl’s is unbuttoned, and Rick loves the feeling of Daryl’s warm skin against his own. It took some time before Daryl became comfortable enough around everyone to let them see so much skin, but lately, he’s been less tense about it. He’s even wearing swimming shorts like everyone else. Maybe the recent heatwave’s had something to do with it. At the beginning of the month, they had a day when the temperature went above a hundred degrees. Aaron called in the morning and forbade Daryl from coming to work at the garage, declaring an elemental disaster. Rick had never been as grateful for the invention of AC as he was that day, the majority of which he spent lazing about in a perfectly pleasant room with Daryl’s arms wrapped around him and Daryl’s lips on his own, and neither of them was wearing pants through it all. It was a very nice day.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Rick says, looking up at his boyfriend’s face. Daryl looks back at him curiously and Rick licks his lips. He reaches for his jeans folded neatly at the corner of the blanket. He fishes around the pockets for the small box he knows is there, and when he finds it, he holds it out to Daryl.

“I know you already agreed once, but then things happened, so I gave you some time and now I want to make sure you haven’t changed your mind,” he explains. A bit nervously, even though he knows he has no reason to be nervous, he inhales and asks, “Will you marry me?”

And Daryl doesn’t even hesitate before he replies, “Yes, Rick,” and he blushes when he realizes everyone in the vicinity is looking at the two of them. Still, he opens the small box and takes out the elegant but simple golden band Rick got for him. He puts it on his finger and looks up at Rick.

“Told ya I ain’t needed no ring,” he mutters, a strange expression on his face.

“Well, I can return it to the shop,” Rick offers, pretending he’s not amused at the man’s antics. He reaches towards Daryl’s fingers like he wants to take the ring back.

Daryl covers it protectively with his other hand. “Ain’t givin’ it back now. Ya gave it, now yer gonna hafta marry me for reals.”

“I was going to, ring or no ring,” Rick assures him. When Daryl squints at him suspiciously, trying to gauge if Rick’s not sweet-talking him into giving the ring back, Rick chuckles and kisses him, chaste at first, but it never stays chaste for long with Daryl. No, Rick can’t help but press his tongue between Daryl’s narrow lips and taste him, kiss him deep and wet and amazing. They’ve been together every day for over a year now, ever since Daryl returned, but to Rick, every kiss still feels like the first: like falling in love all over again.

“Dude, tone down on the PDA,” Shane grumbles, apparently not asleep after all. He feebly throws a fistful of sand at their direction, but not even a grain reaches them.

Rick makes sure to produce the most lewd lip-smacking sound when he breaks the kiss. Daryl rolls his eyes and smacks him on the arm. Rick pouts because it still hurts a little: the extensive tattoo with sunflowers and a wolf is still somewhat tender, after all the last session was three days ago. Daryl kisses his shoulder in apology and picks up the tube of creamy lotion he starts applying on the inked skin to make up for the mild offense. Rick sighs happily and lets himself be coddled.

“You guys got any reason for all this enthusiastic groping?” Michonne asks, lifting an eyebrow.

Rick beams. “We’re getting married,” he announces cheerfully.

“What, right now?” Shane asks, blinking. He tries to get up and only just notices the sand that’s up to his shoulders already. He chuckles, rolls his eyes and lies back down because why the hell not. The sand’s probably damp and pleasant on heated skin, anyways.

“Well, no,” Rick admits, “but-”

“I mean, just looking at the two of you, I would’ve thought you’re already married,” Jessie observes. She tries to look like she was not eavesdropping. It’s not working. She’s been very invested in Rick and Daryl’s relationship, to be honest. Once, she told them she was living vicariously through them because her own love life was pretty much non-existent. While that’s no longer the case - she’s been dating a guy she met at the gym, of all places, for the last few weeks - she’s still ridiculously nosy about the details of Rick and Daryl’s romance.

Rick’s somehow surprised to hear what she has to say, though. “Really?” He asks.

Eric rolls his eyes, fondly exasperated. “We watched Daryl peel an apple for you. He cut it up into bite-sized chunks. He _hand-fed_ it to you.”

“So what,” Daryl grumbles. “Gotta take care of ‘im. ‘s shitty at takin’ care of himself.”

“Hey,” Rick protests, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Anyway, none of that’s like married couples.”

“Uh-huh,” Eric says. “Everything about the two of you just screams _newlyweds_.”

“Shut up,” Daryl mutters, blushing. He throws a grape at Eric. Because he uses his right arm to do it, he misses and hits Paul instead. Despite the therapy and training, not all of its motor functions are back to what they used to be. It’s not much of a problem to him; Rick was incredibly impressed to learn Daryl’s ambidextrous and is exactly as capable of giving a perfect handjob with his left hand as he was with his right. And it’s not like his right hand is completely useless, just not as precise anymore.

They’re a matching pair, Daryl and Rick. Both damaged, both retired, both so absolutely in love with each other and happy together.

“So, when are you gonna get hitched?” Michonne asks, grinning at the way Paul blinks at everyone, confused by the projectile attack that so rudely interrupted him mid-sentence as he was arguing about ignition or something.

Rick becomes thoughtful at that. He’s always liked spring weddings, but then he’d have to wait for next year, and he really, really can’t wait to get married. If it was up to him, he’d just grab Daryl and drive him to the courthouse right now.

“I mean, you better do it soon if you want me to fit into a nice dress as I walk either one of you down the lane,” Michonne adds, and her grin turns mischievous.

“What? Why?” Shane asks, slow on the uptake, but then it hits him. “Are you?...”

“Yes, dummy, we’re going to have a baby,” Michonne confirms, “though I swear to God, I don’t know why I think you multiplying is a good thing- Oomph!”

Shane moves out from under the sand so fast, Michonne has no chance to escape as he grabs her and wraps her in his arms, and kisses her like she’s the most precious thing under the sun to him. Rick watches them, and he’s not even surprised that his vision goes a little hazy with tears. They’re so beautiful together in this moment, revelling in each other’s embrace, and Rick loves them both so much it makes his heart swell. No, the _three of them_ , he corrects himself, and God, he loves babies. With Judith being four years old and not needing him as much as she used to, Rick’s been pouring a lot of extra love towards little Hershel Junior, but it’s been difficult with Maggie and Glenn living in DC; Michonne and Shane, though, they live just across the street from him, so…

“We’re up for babysittin’ ‘f ya need it,” Daryl offers when Michonne finally pushes Shane away and punches him playfully on the arm, and it’s as if he’s reading Rick’s mind.

“Get married first,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t giving you my kid when you’re in honeymoon stage.”

Rick laughs. “I don’t think it’ll ever end,” he says somewhat sheepishly and Daryl kisses the top of his head.

This is their life nowadays. An endless honeymoon. Exploring each other, raising children together, finding new hobbies. Daryl’s been teaching Rick to hunt, though he claims Rick’s hopeless at it; Rick’s been attempting to fix Daryl’s horrible-ness in the kitchen, but the results haven’t been promising just yet. They’ve both discovered a shared affinity for fishing, though, and they’ve been camping a few times in the mountains, just the two of them, making love surrounded by nature. The last time they went, Rick’s picked up a tick in the left buttock, though, so he doesn’t think they’ll be getting naked in the wilds again very soon.

“You know, I didn’t think we’d all end up like this,” Michonne says some time later when Shane and Daryl join Paul, Ezekiel, Carol, Aaron and the kids in a game of beach volleyball. Eric and Jessie are there, too, though they act as referees. Michonne sits down on the blanket next to where Rick’s sprawled comfortably with a pillow under his head.

“Hmmm? Like what?” Rick asks, looking up at her.

“Happy,” she replies simply. She chuckles. “I remember coming to Alexandria to find you hospitalized after someone drugged you with a _pineapple pizza_. That was my first impression of the place, you know? That even something as ridiculous as pizza was out to kill you. I didn’t think we’d be happy there. Now look at us…”

“Yeah,” Rick admits, smiling. “Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if I wasn’t so stubborn,” he says. “If I didn’t take Daryl home. I think I might’ve been dead now.”

“You might’ve,” Michonne agrees. She hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think he would’ve let you slip away either way, though,” she adds. “You know, I think I could see it even then. The way he looked at you. I thought he was smitten, back then, but that wasn’t it. Every time he looked at you, it was like he was seeing home.”

Rick chuckles at the cheesiness of it, but he knows it’s the truth. Daryl’s said something similar to him, after all, and it’s still amazing to be reminded that this wonderful man has been in love with him for years, before he even really met him. It makes Rick feel like they’ve always been meant to be together. Like it’s destiny. Like they would’ve ended up together even if the world was completely different.

Maybe if Lori hadn’t died, Rick would’ve met Daryl at work sometime, on a case or a training course, and would’ve eventually fallen for him as well. Or maybe they would’ve bumped into each other in a cafe, or he would’ve stopped Daryl for speeding on the highway again, or anything else really. Hell, even if there was a damn zombie apocalypse, Rick supposes they would’ve met and fallen in love anyway, two men trying their best to survive in the midst of all the disgusting gore and blood. He just can’t imagine not loving Daryl anymore.

“Lori would’ve been proud of how far you’ve come,” Michonne says, squeezing Rick’s hand.

He squeezes back. “I know,” he says.

Then he sits up to watch his family play volleyball in the slowly setting sun. He sees Daryl running up to the line that serves as their net replacement, Judith sitting on his shoulders and squealing as she manages to hit the ball and score a point. He sees Carl give a whoop and high-five both Daryl and Judith. He watches as Shane, who’s on the opposing team, scoops Carl up like he weighs nothing, and runs with him into the water. Carl’s high-pitched screams are epic and Rick wishes he had something to record them for later, to use as blackmail material if his son ever entered that legendary teenage rebellion stage. Then again, he couldn’t use them to embarrass Carl in front of his girlfriend, seeing as said girlfriend is currently cheering Shane on, laughing at Carl’s misfortune.

And then it’s getting dark and everyone’s going back to the campers and tents they have set up at the site two miles into the woods. Everyone but Rick and Daryl, that is; they’ve volunteered to put out the fire, though it doesn’t take a genius to realize it’s just an excuse to be alone some more. Rick sighs contentedly when Daryl slides into his embrace in front of the campfire that’s still going, and it reminds him of a certain phone call a long time ago.

“Saw the ocean on the other side,” Daryl says softly, gesturing vaguely to the west with his head. “Ain’t half as pretty.”

“Mmm. You know,” Rick muses, “you never told me what you were up to, all that time you were away.”

“Huh,” Daryl huffs. “Yer right. Ain’t never come up,” he admits. “Had one last job to do, for the Bureau. ‘s just a trackin’ job, somethin’ only I coulda done, an’ my busted arm ain’t been a problem. Chased this guy all over the damn States. Finally got him up in Massachusetts, an’ he’s in for life this time. Dumb fuck, lucky he ain’t getting the injection,” he grumbles.

“It’s someone you knew before?” Rick guesses, running a hand slowly through Daryl’s hair.

“Yep,” Daryl says, sighing. “My dumbass older brother. Merle,” he shakes his head. “Got himself outta prison just to get right back in, for murder this time. Killed that bastard, Philip Blake, the fuck who made me homeless when ‘s a kid.”

“Why then, though?” Rick asks, wondering. “I mean, that was over twenty years ago. Wasn’t that too late for revenge?”

“He wouldna tell me. Can’t help but think ‘s because I told him ‘bout ya, that time we met at the prison parkin’ lot,” Daryl replies thoughtfully. “Merle ain’t never been all acceptin’ like. Got that from our piece of shit daddy, I guess. Maybe he’d had a good think and decided bein’ homeless as a kid screwed up my brain or somethin’. Fucked up my wires and made me a homo. He’s exactly the kinda dumb shit who’d think that, ya know? Shouldna told him, but… he’s my brother, an’ I wanted him to know ‘bout the guy who made me stupid happy.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Rick murmurs, tightening his arms around his wonderful, wonderful boyfriend… no, he supposes it’s _fiance_ now, isn’t it? Just the thought makes him sigh into Daryl’s shoulder.

“Nah, we figured it out in the end,” Daryl says, and he turns around just enough to kiss Rick briefly on the lips. “When I caught him, we talked it out, man to man, an’ Merle said he’s okay with it. ‘s long he ain’t hafta hear anymore ‘bout it,” he snickers softly at his brother’s antics, and it’s adorable. Rick thinks he probably wouldn’t like Merle Dixon if he ever met him, but he can at least appreciate that the man got over his issues to accept that Daryl’s happy, even if it’s with a man. Not everyone would’ve done that.

“I love you,” Rick says, and Daryl looks back at him again, stormy eyes glimmering in the flickering light of the bonfire.

“Still feel like a dream, every time ya say it,” he whispers, and Rick brushes away some of his hair to kiss the nape of his neck.

“I promise, we’re awake,” he whispers back.

And then he helps Daryl shift so that they’re face to face, Daryl making sure he’s not putting too much pressure on Rick’s abdomen, and they kiss, long and filled with want. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get tired of kissing Daryl like this, of having him in his arms, of making love to him. He never wants to get tired of any of it, either, because it’s perfect, the way they fit together. He moans softly into Daryl’s mouth when Daryl presses his tongue insistently against his, and he breaks the kiss.

“I want you to fuck me,” he murmurs hotly against Daryl’s lips.

Daryl groans. “Ya sure? Don’t gotta do it, y’know that, I love bein’ fucked,” he says, but Rick could feel how his cock twitched at the words. They’ve never tried it this way after that first time, but Rick’s been experimenting with his fingers, and, well, he thinks he can take it now. If they go slow. It should be alright. Hell, it’ll be better than alright, because he knows what to expect and it won’t spook him this time. He’ll know how to take it, and he wants to give this to Daryl.

“I need you like this,” he confesses, licks his lips. “Don’t know if I’ll be able to do it ever again, can’t promise you, but tonight… Tonight, I need you.”

Daryl kisses him, all tongue and desire and love, and his hands wander so carefully up and down Rick’s sides, like he’s afraid even the simplest touch might hurt him. Normally Rick doesn’t want to be handled like this, like he’s made of glass, but right now, it’s what he thinks he needs. Because he feels frail, spread out under the man he loves in the faint moonlight enhanced by the waning bonfire, and he shivers at the gust of wind from the ocean that smells like salt and storm and, somehow, like Daryl.

“‘s it safe?” Daryl asks, hesitant, as his fingers press lightly against the scars on Rick’s abdomen. The straight lines leftover after the surgery that fixed his insides, and the jagged, raised mess of a scar from what messed them up in the first place. The skin still feels sensitive there and Rick lets out a breathy sigh, jerking into the touch.

“It’s safe,” he says, because he’d asked Doctor Stookey almost a year ago and the man told him to go for it, just to make sure not to overexert himself.

Daryl licks his lips, and the way he does it is all the sexier because he’s barely aware he does it. Everything about him is like this, an innocent kind of allure of somebody who’s not entirely aware of how attractive he is, and Rick loves it about him. Loves to prove it to him, too, to convince him how desirable he is, how irresistible.

But tonight it’s going to be different. Tonight there’s no need to convince anybody of anything. Tonight, Daryl kisses him again as he shrugs off his shirt, like he wants to gift Rick with his vulnerability in exchange for Rick offering his own. Rick drags his fingers over Daryl’s back, wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders and moans into the kiss, feeling like he’s burning inside. But there’s no urgency in this, not when Daryl moves to relieve them both of their swimming trunks, not when he slowly rubs his thigh against Rick’s cock. He picks up the pillow from where it’s discarded next to the blanket, helps Rick lift his hips and places the pillow underneath them to help elevate him. The position is strange at first, but it’s not uncomfortable,and Rick forgets about the strangeness when Daryl kisses him and rubs his dick again. It’s all so slow and deliberate, and Rick moans again, helpless against the lazy pleasure, unable to stop himself from making sounds and careless about who might hear him. Everything that matters is Daryl, Daryl’s body around him and Daryl’s thick, warm fingers, slick and hesitant, breaching him in a slow motion, one at a time, so slow, so careful.

“Do it, sweetheart,” Rick whispers into the skin of Daryl’s shoulder, “open me up so I can take you,” and he might be blushing at the words falling from his mouth or he might not; he doesn’t know, but his face feels warm, and he bites down on his lip, embarrassed but not.

Daryl groans right into his ear and does as he’s told, stretching Rick open first with one finger, then adding the second when he feels Rick’s loose enough to take it. Experimentally, Rick tries bucking his hips to push the fingers in further, but Daryl’s having none of it. He presses Rick’s hips to the blanket with his free hand.

“We doin’ it my way,” he growls, “yer jus’ layin’ back enjoyin’ yerself, that clear?”

Rick nods, biting his lip to keep himself from moaning real loud because God, Daryl’s hot like this, all commanding and confident and growly. He’s not normally like that in bed, he’s usually submissive and enjoying it, but then, tonight’s different for him, too.

Daryl takes his sweet time, and Rick feels himself relaxing like he’s never thought he could during sex, and it’s good; it’s nothing like that first time when neither of them knew what they were doing. He can tell Daryl’s purposefully avoiding hitting his prostate, knowing it wouldn’t feel as good for Rick as it always does for him, and instead he sort of massages his hole, stretching and slicking it, and Rick lets out soft sighs and moans because it’s just so damn _good_ to feel the thick digits slide in and out.

Then Daryl removes his fingers and kneels between Rick’s spread legs; he bites his lip, like he’s still not sure about this, but something in Rick’s face must convince him because he finally reaches for the lube and coats his cock with it. Then, carefully, he positions the tip of it against the rim of Rick’s hole.

“Yes, darling,” Rick whimpers, answering an unasked question, needy and so, so sure, “do it,” and then Daryl does, pushes in so slow and gentle, groaning as he does; and Rick can’t help it, he moans, the initial pain mixing with pleasure until there’s barely any pain left, and there’s only the sensation of _fullness_ that makes Rick see stars behind closed eyelids. God, but it’s overwhelming; it’s like Daryl’s everywhere, above him, around him, _inside_ him, and Rick feels so good he can’t even think anymore. Daryl doesn’t move for the longest time, but it’s okay because it’s already good like this, but then he _does_ move and lets out a soft little sigh, and Rick reaches for him, needs him, needs to kiss him. Daryl leans over him carefully and it makes him push further in, and Rick whines into his mouth when the head of Daryl’s cock touches against that spot deep inside of him, but it’s not painful this time. It’s… he doesn’t have words to describe it other than _intense_ , but it’s not pain nor is it pleasure, just… it’s something, and his hips buck of their own accord, and Daryl’s kiss is sloppy and wet.

“Please, please,” Rick begs, and Daryl pulls back and then sinks back into him again, and both of them are trembling now. Rick wraps his arms around Daryl’s shoulders, tangles his hands in Daryl’s hair and makes all those helpless noises that are for his ears only, and Daryl buries his face in Rick’s face as he thrusts into him, slow and deep and so fucking gentle, so careful. Even in the midst of this, even losing himself to passion, he’s so careful not to do anything that could hurt Rick, and Rick loves him so much, so much, more than anything, more-

“So close, Daryl, so good, baby, please,” he whispers hoarsely into Daryl’s ear, and Daryl wraps his fingers around Rick’s straining cock, moans when he closes his hand around it.

“Ya feel so good,” he murmurs, “‘m gonna… Rick, ‘m not gonna last,” he warns, and Rick shakes his head, bites down on the shell of his ear.

“Don't need to- come for me, baby, fill me up,” he begs, and he feels Daryl’s stuttered exhale on his neck, and then it’s just two, three more thrusts, and Daryl stills with a long, drawn-out moan, and a warm wetness fills Rick deep inside, and then, then Daryl kisses him, and his thumb flicks against the slit at the tip of Rick’s cock, and Rick’s coming too, spilling between them, all over them both.

“I love you,” Rick says when he’s able to breathe normally again. He doesn’t know how much time’s passed, he just knows Daryl’s already managed to pull out of him and clean them both up somewhat, and now they’re wrapped up in each other again, Daryl on his back and Rick half on top of him. They’re still naked, but there’s a soft blanket covering them against the chill from the ocean.

Rick feels boneless, but even more than that, he feels sated. He doesn’t think he’s going to want this again in the near future, but for now, he lets himself enjoy the aftermath. His skin tingles and Daryl’s so warm under him, and his chest is moving slowly, like he’s already falling asleep.

“Love you too,” Daryl says back, voice laced with dizziness. But he sits up a moment later. “C’mon,” he mutters, and he wraps Rick in the blanket as he helps him up. “Gonna catch our deaths ‘f we sleep here.”

Rick lets himself be manhandled and all but carried to the camper they have to themselves, what with the kids sleeping out in the tents. Daryl lays him out on the wide bed that takes up the majority of the space inside, and he kisses Rick all over before helping him into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to sleep in.

“Don’t need to be pampering me,” Rick admonishes him sleepily, but Daryl shakes his head.

“Want to,” he says. “Could do it all the time.”

He puts on his sleeping clothes as well and climbs into bed as well, and Rick snuggles up into him, happy to continue to be the little spoon for the night.

“Tomorrow,” he says dreamily.

“Hm?”

He smiles into Daryl’s chest. “Let’s go and get married tomorrow. First thing after breakfast.”

Daryl’s silent for the longest time and Rick thinks he might’ve already gone to sleep; his heartbeat is slow and steady, and his breathing is deep and regular, so he might be asleep. But then, right on the verge of falling asleep himself, he hears Daryl whisper, “Yeah, okay,” and then sleep finally claims him.

His dreams are full of love, but then again, so is his waking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. My first ever novel-length story, completed. It's approximately 1/4 of all the words I've posted here since I started out in 2013. And I did it in three months. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone who's stuck with this fic to the end. Thank you for all the amazing comments that kept me going. Thank you for helping me correct mistakes, for all your ideas and theories, for letting me know that this silly thing was worth writing. 
> 
> As I've mentioned before, there's a prequel coming, but it won't be here for a while. I want to have at least some of it written in advance so I can have a regular posting schedule. For now, I might be posting some other stories I'm working on, because let me tell you, this fandom - this ship, this wonderful, wonderful ship - it's been very inspiring and I don't see myself stopping writing for it any time soon.
> 
> I'm getting emotional, so I think I'll stop here. Thank you, once again. This has been an incredible journey.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm most--curiously--blue--eyes on Tumblr if anyone wants to say hi :)


End file.
